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suTLiBCTTiOErs  FiROM  mis  WIRMraUGS 


1 


MEMOIR 


OF 


HENRY  AUGUSTUS   INGALLS. 


BY 


REV.  GEORGE  W.  BURNAP, 


PASTOR   OF    THE    FIRST    INDEPENDENT   CHURCH    OF    BALTIUOUE. 


WITH 


SELECTIONS   FROM  HIS  WRITINGS 


**  None  knew  him  but  to  love  him, 
None  numed  him  but  to  praiae,*'  —  Halleck. 


BOSTON: 

JAMES    MUNROE   AND   COMPANY. 

1846. 


i    J   «     J 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846,  by 

James  Mu^fROE  axd  Company, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  tlie  District  of  Massachusetts. 


BOSTON: 
PRINTED   BY   THURSTON,   TORRT   AND    CO. 

31  Devonshire  Street. 


.«*> 


CO 


dT 

A76" 
Z44-29 


PREFACE. 


The  Committee,  appointed  by  the  Me- 
tropolitan Association  to  make  a  selec- 
tion from  the  writings  of  our  late  fellow 
member,  Henry  A.  Ingalls,  and  with  it 
publish  a  Memoir  of  him,  submit  the  present 
w     volume  as  the  result  of  their  labors. 

CD 

•-'  For  the  Memoir,  we  are  indebted  to  the 
_  Reverend  George  VV.  Burnap,  of  Baltimore. 
*u,  It  is  a  beautiful  and  a])propriate  tribute  to 
g  departed  worth ;  for  it  we  tender  to  the 
author  our  grateful  acknowledgments. 

With  regard  to  the  selections,  it  is  not 
8  intended  to  submit  them  to  the  "  unfeeling 
3^  ordeal  of  criticism."  Many  of  them  were 
A  written  at  an  early  period  of  Mr.  Ingalls's 
3t  life,  for  his  own  amusement  and  improve- 
ti  ment;  and  all,  with  perhaps  one  or  two  ex- 
ceptions, were,  undoubtedly,  never  thought 
of  for  publication. 


462444 


IV"  PREFACE. 


The  object  of   the  following  publication 
is,  simply,  to  embody  in  an  enduring  form, 
the  memorials  which  are  left  in  his  writings, 
and  the  recollections  of  his  friends,  of  the 
mind  and  character  of  a  young  man,  dis- 
tinguished for  moral  and  intellectual  attain- 
ment.      The  Association    which   undertook 
the  enterprise,  w^ere  desirous  to  possess,  in- 
dividually,   the    means    of    recalling    more 
vividly  the   image  of  their  departed  friend, 
and  thus  of  kindling  within   themselves  an 
ever-renewing    desire    of    that    excellence 
w^hich  they  admired  in  him.     They  wished 
to  rescue  from  oblivion  the  memory  of  one, 
w^hose  example  is  calculated  both  to  stimu- 
late and  encourage  the  young  in  all  that  is 
good.       They    felt,    too,    that    the     benefit 
would  not  be  confined   to  themselves:    for 
whoever  should  thus  learn  his  early  develop- 
ment both  of  mind  and  character,  w^ould  be 
reminded  of  his  own  powers  and  responsi- 
bilities, and  be  exhorted  "  to  go  and  do  like- 
wise."    They  would  have  it  manifest,  that 
the  opinion  too  prevalent  among  young  men, 
that  virtue,   morality  and   honor,   go  unob- 


PREFACE. 


served  and  unappreciated,  and  consequently 
there  is  one  reason  less  for  their  being  prac- 
tised, is  erroneous  ;  as  the  affection  of  every 
member  of  our  Association  for  the  memory 
of  our  departed  friend,  abundantly  testifies. 
They  commend  it  to  the  attention  of  the 
young,  as  a  plain,  unvarnished  tale  of  real 
life,  demonstrating  by  facts,  how  much  may 
be  accomplished  in  a  short  life,  directed  by 
wisdom  and  sanctified  by  true  religion. 


JOHN  J.  ANDERSON, 
L.  B.  IIARDCASTLE, 
THOMAS  J.  TAYLOR, 
JAMES  M.  DRAKE, 
REUBEN  H.  CUDLIPP, 


>  Committee. 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

Memoir,      .  .  .  .  .  .  9-76 

SELECTIONS. 

Sltitrrrsscs. 
First  Anniversary  Address,  .  .  .  .77 

Second       do.  do.  ....  92 

Bebatcs. 

Philosophy  versus  Poetry,  ....     107 

Ancient  rcr^MS  Modern  Laws,  .  .  .  123 

Youth  versus  Manhood,      .....     134 

Sssai'S. 
The  Stream  of  Teridencies,  ....     141 

Happiness,         ...  ...  147 

Novel  Pleading,       ......     154 

Influence  of  Character,  ....  161 

The  Close  of  the  Year,      .  .  .  .  .167 

Sale. 
Isabella  the  Fair,  .....  171 

The  Vision, 186 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

j^vaQmcnts. 

An  Old  Man's  Reflections,             ....  193 

Death,                ......  197 

Hope,           .......  199 

Tears,                  ......  201 

Guardian  Spirits,                 .....  202 

Proper  Use  of  Time,                 ....  204 

Time's  Changes,     ......  205 

Fame,     .......  206 

For  an  Album,        .  .  .  .  .  .208 

Memory,            ......  209 


MEMOIR. 


The  friends  of  the  subject  of  the  following 
Memoir  have  felt  themselves  constrained  by  their 
affection  for  him,  and  by  a  desire  to  diffuse  the 
influence  of  so  bright  an  example  of  moral  ex- 
cellence, to  embody  in  a  more  enduring  form  the 
memorials  that  are  left  of  a  brief,  yet  honorable 
and  well-spent  life.  We  are  told  by  a  wise  man, 
that  "honorable  age  is  not  that  which  standeth 
in  length  of  time,  nor  is  measured  by  number  of 
years.  But  wisdom  is  the  gray  hair  unto  men, 
and  an  unspotted  life  is  old  age."  That  life  is 
long  enough  which  fulfils  life's  great  purpose  ; 
and  to  the  mature  in  virtue,  no  death  can  be  un- 
timely. 

There  never  was  a  time,  perhaps,  when  there 
was  more  need  that  honorable  mention  should 
be  made  of  high  moral  attainment  in  early  life. 
There  is  a  strong  tendency,  in  our  age  and 
country,  to  overlook  and  underrate  the  import- 
ance of  character  in  the  young.  There  is  great 
2 


10  MEMOIR. 

ambition  in  parents  to  give  their  children   the 
best  advantages  of  intellectnal  education,  to  hur- 
ry them  into  the  world,  and  then  to  push  their 
fortunes  by  every  expedient.     The  signs  of  thrift 
and  enterprise  are  watched  with  the  most  anxious 
eye.      But  the    formation   and    development    of 
character,  which   is,  after  all,  the  only  sure  basis 
of  permanent   prosperity,  are  looked  upon  with 
comparative   indifference.     The   consequence  is, 
too    often,   ultimate    and  bitter  disappointment. 
Without    character,  talent,  acquisition    and    the 
most  flattering  prospects,  are  sure  to  make  early 
and  total  shipwreck.    Hence  the  spectacle,  which 
all  our  large  cities  exhibit,  of  multitudes  of  young 
men,  to  whom  life,  though  commenced  under 
the  most  favorable  auspices,  is  a  complete   mis- 
carriage ;    who,  instead  of   being   ornaments  to 
society,  are  its  pests  and   scourges;    instead  of 
being  the  joy  and  comfort   of  their  parents,  are 
their  sorrow  and   disgrace,  bowing  down  whole 
families,  in  the   midst  of  affluence  and  splendor, 
to  mourning  and  tears.     It   is  salutary,  to  show 
the  young  of  our  large  cities,  that  the  paths  of 
temptation  may  be  trodden,  even  by  the  inexpe- 
rienced, uncorrupted  and  unsoiled  ;  that  contact 
with  the  multitude  by  no  means  involves  con- 
tamination with  their  vices  ;  that  the  soul  may 
maintain  its  purity  in   the  midst  of  a  tainted  at- 


MEMOIR.  11 

mospherc ;  and  true  piety  may  spring  up  and 
mature,  in  the  hurry  and  din  of  a  mighty  me- 
tropolis. 

Hknry  Augustus  Ingalls  was  born  in  Merri- 
mack, N.  H.,  on  the  eighth  of  September,  1823, 
and  resided  in  his  native  town  till,  at  the  age  of 
ten,  he  removed  with  his  father's  family  to  the 
city  of  New-York.  Until  this  period,  there  was 
nothing  in  his  character  to  distinguish  him  from 
his  associates,  except,  perhaps,  a  propensity  to 
reading,  and  a  remarkably  equable  temper  and 
disposition.  Soon  after  his  removal  to  New-York, 
he  was  placed  at  school,  and  became  very  fond 
of  study  and  books.  He  always  occupied  a 
prominent  position  in  his  class,  and  excelled  in 
most  branches  of  study.  In  1S35,  he  entered 
the  Mechanics'  Society  School  in  Crosby-street, 
where  he  remained  four  years,  completed  his 
school  education,  and  graduated  in  April,  1839. 
While  at  this  school,  his  career  was  marked  by 
a  harmonious  development  of  intellectual  and 
moral  excellence.  One  of  his  associates  bears 
witness,  that  "  while  at  school,  Henry  was  be- 
loved by  every  schoolfellow  ;  he  was  esteemed, 
not  alone  for  his  superior  mental  qualities,  well- 
informed  mind  and  studious  habits,  but  for  his 
even  and  never-varying  moral  and  courteous  in- 


12  MEMOIR. 

tercoiirse  with  those  about  him."    As  a  testimony 
of  the  estimation   in  which  he  was  held,  during 
the  last  year  of  his  course  at  school,  the  graduat- 
ing class,  having  out  of  respect  and  gratitude  to 
the  institution  in  which  they  had  been  educated, 
formed  an  association  for  the  collecting  of  a  cabi- 
net  of  natural  science,   unanimously,  with  the 
exception   of   his  own  vote,   placed  him  at  its 
head.     To   this  honor  he   was  twice  reelected. 
Upon  all  these   enterprises  for  self-improvement, 
he  entered  with  a  warm,  but  steady  and  perse- 
vering zeal.     On  all  public  occasions,  he  acquit- 
ted himself,  both  as  a  speaker  and  writer,  with 
distinguished  success.     This  school  association 
became  the  nucleus  of  a  more  extensive  and  per- 
manent   society.      Those   who    had  derived    so 
much  pleasure  from  literary  intercourse  at  school, 
determined  to  prolong  their  friendship  and  mental 
advantages,  by  forming  a  literary  society,  called 
the   "Metropolitan  Association;"  the   object 
of  which  was,  "  to  promote  a  spirit  of  inquiry 
on  useful  subjects,  and  to  extend  the  knowledge 
of   its  members  by  means    of   debates,  essays, 
lectures,  &c."     Over  this  association,  young  In- 
galls  was  chosen  to  preside  ;  an  evidence  that  his 
merits  were  discerned  and  appreciated,  as  well 
after,  as  before,  his  separation  from  the  scenes  of 
his  pupilage.     Of  his  connection  with  this  so- 


MEMOIR.  13 

ciety,  the  following  communication  from  an  inti- 
mate friend  gives  a  gratifying  and  satisfactory 
account. 

Enfield,  N.  C,  March  22d,  1845. 
Dear  Sin  : 

I  lately  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  J.  J.  Ander- 
son, of  New-York,  communicating  the  pleasing 
intelligence,  that  a  committee,  of  which  he  is 
chairman,  has  been  appointed  by  the  Metropolitan 
Association  to  select  for  publication  a  portion  of 
the  writings  of  the  late  Henry  A.  Ingalls,  and 
that  the  work  will  contain  a  biographical  sketch 
of  the  author,  which  you  are  to  contribute.  Mr. 
Anderson  therefore,  desires  me,  as  one  who  was 
favored  Avith  the  intimate  friendship  of  the  de- 
ceased, for  several  years  preceding  his  death,  to 
give  you  some  information  respecting  his  charac- 
ter and  deportment,  whilst  connected  with  the 
above  mentioned  association,  where  my  acquaint- 
ance with  him  commenced,  and  the  estimation 
in  which  he  was  held  by  his  fellow  members. 

The  duty  which  this  request  imposes,  T  feel 
myself  incompetent  to  perform ;  nor  would  I 
venture  to  trespass  on  your  attention,  were  I  not 
apprehensive  lest  my  silence  would  seem  to 
manifest  any  indifference  towards  the  memory 
of  a  deeply  regretted  and  venerated  friend.  True, 
I  had  the  best  opportunity  of  becoming  acquaint- 


14 


MEMOIR. 


ed  with  the  rare  merits  of  Mr.  Ingalls,  and  of 
ascertaining  the  high  degree  in  which  he  pos- 
sessed the  esteem  and  affection  of  his  associates. 
But  I  am  aware  you  do  not  want  generalities  ; 
and  when  I  attempt  translating  m.y  recollections 
into  words,  I  find  gentleness,  truth  and  benignity 
so  blended  with  all  he  said  and  did,  as  to  render 
it  a  matter  of  extreme  difficulty,  to  refer  to  any 
particular  acts,  in  which  the  goodness  of  his 
nature  was  more  prominently  exhibited.  It  is 
the  confession  of  all  his  friends,  that  he  glided 
into  their  hearts  at  the  very  first  interview. 
That  it  was  no  holyday  excellence  which  caused 
this  favorable  prepossession,  is  evidenced  by  the 
fact,  that  the  longer  he  Avas  known,  the  more  he 
was  admired  and  loved.  The  uniform  upright- 
ness of  his  character,  and  the  attractive  suavity 
of  his  manners,  are  still  more  fully  attested  by 
the  existence  of  the  association,  which  now 
seeks  to  honor  his  memory,  and  the  circum- 
stances attending  its  establishment. 

A  number  of  young  men,  in  New-York,  few 
of  them  beyond  their  legal  infancy,  met  to  form 
an  association,  for  the  purpose  of  mutual  im- 
provement. All  were  enthusiastic  for  the  success 
of  the  undertaking  ;  but,  from  a  body  of  inex- 
perienced youths,  who  could  be  selected,  of 
sufficient  wisdom  and  influence,  to  conduct  their 


MEMOIR. 


15 


proceedings  in  a  suitable  manner,  and  direct  their 
energies  into  a  proper  channel  ?  Strange  to  say, 
one  of  the  youngest  amongst  us,  was  considered 
the  best  calculated  to  accomplish  these  ends. 
Though  previously  unknown  to  the  majority  of 
us,  Mr.  Ingalls  was  chosen  president  at  our  sec- 
ond sitting;  and  in  this  capacity,  he  more  than 
justified  the  confidence  reposed  in  him.  To 
his  consummate  judgment,  and  the  ascendency 
which  his  virtues  had  obtained  over  the  minds 
of  the  members,  may  be  attributed  the  continu- 
ance of  our  society.  Without  giving  the  least 
offence,  he  perfectly  succeeded  in  tempering 
rashness  and  preserving  order.  When  any  mis- 
behavior occurred,  he  rebuked  it  in  a  manner  so 
sweetly  impressive,  that  the  offence  was  not 
repeated  ;  and  the  persons  censured,  were  more 
strongly  bound  to  him  than  before.  Every  thing 
tending  to  promote  the  objects  for  which  we  had 
combined,  received  his  most  devoted  support  ; 
and  when,  according,  to  our  rules,  he  ceded  the 
chair  to  another,  the  prosperity  of  our  society, 
principally  through  his  management,  was  placed 
on  a  permanent  basis. 

In  a  literary  point  of  view,  his  talents  much 
elevated  the  character  of  our  society.  The  ad- 
vantages of  a  cultivated  intellect  were  so  brightly 
exemplified  in   his   own  person,  that  his  sugges- 


16  MEMOIR. 

tions  were  readily  attended  to,  on  all  matters 
connected  with  mental  discipline.  In  debate, 
he  displayed  the  utmost  skilfulness  and  prompti- 
tude, whether  in  giving  a  forcible  exposition  of 
his  own  views,  or  successfully  unravelling  the 
defective  argumentation  of  his  adversaries ;  at 
the  same  time,  never  permitting  a  word  to  escape 
him  which  could  hurt  the  feelings  of  the  most 
sensitive.  Thus,  while  he  generally  triumphed 
in  every  discussion,  no  hostility  rankled  in  the 
minds  of  the  defeated.  His  essays  on  various 
subjects,  always  found  attentive  and  charmed  list- 
eners. In  a  word,  the  impression  created  by  the 
manifestation  of  his  powers,  both  in  extempore 
and  prepared  composition,  was  such,  that  one 
sentiment  pervaded  the  minds  of  all :  — since  the 
spring  is  so  rich  in  promise,  what  treasures  will 
not  the  summer  and  autumn  disclose  ! 

If  discord  sometimes  prevailed  in  our  body, 
and  feelings  of  enmity  were  engendered  amongst 
the  members,  Mr.  Ingalls  participated  only  in 
their  love  ;  for  at  his  hands  nothing  was  experi- 
enced but  affability  and  kindness.  When  angry 
conflicts  ensued,  he  used  his  best  exertions  to 
restore  harmony.  On  one  occasion,  a  warm  alter- 
cation had  taken  place  between  two  members, 
in  the  course  of  the  discussion  ;  after  the  meet- 
ing dispersed,  he  was  seen  in  earnest  conversation 


MEMOIR. 


17 


with  one  of  the  parties.  He  brought  them  to- 
getlier,  and  the  consequence  was,  a  cordial 
reunion.  This  Hue  of  conduct  was  duly  appre- 
ciated. I  might  mnhiply  instances  of  his  worth  ; 
but,  perhaps  it  is  enough  to  say,  that  every  act 
done  by  him  during  the  time  he  bore  a  part  in 
our  proceedings,  tended  deservedly  to  strengthen 
his  claims  to  the  respect  and  admiration  of  his 
brethren.  It  is  my  conviction,  that  no  individual 
in  similar  circumstances,  was  ever  more  loved 
and  honored.  So  far  from  hearing  a  word,  at 
any  time,  uttered  to  his  disparagement,  I  ever 
heard  his  name  spoken  of  in  terms  of  unqualified 
commendation.  Of  one  endowed  with  so  many 
amiable  qualities,  it  is  hard  to  say  what  was  the 
distinguishing  excellency,  or  what  most  endeared 
him  to  all  who  knew  him.  He  was,  perhaps, 
the  only  one  unconscious  of  his  own  merits; 
for,  like  his  Divine  Master,  he  was  "  meek  and 
humble  at  heart."  He  resorted  to  no  artifice, 
put  on  no  disguise,  in  order  to  obtain  good  will 
from  men.  In  his  conversation,  he  eschewed  all 
frivolous  topics  and  gave  candid  expression  to 
his  sentiments.  The  stainless  purity  of  his  life 
was,  in  itself,  the  most  withering  rebuke  to  the 
vicious;  and  still  he  was  acceptable  to  persons 
of  the  most  conflicting  opinions,  and  of  the  most 
opposite    shades   of    character.      I   marked    the 


18 


MEMOIR. 


unvaried  mildness  of  his  demeanor,  his  gentleness 
and  sweetness  of  nature,  which  made  all  around 
him  happy ;  his  sympathy  for  the  poor  and  the 
desolate,  and  the  oppressed;  his  expansive  phi- 
lanthropy, which  refused  to  be  narrowed  by  the 
limits  of  creed,  country  or  color.  I  knew  him 
ready  to  succor  "the  fatherless  and  the  widow 
in  their  affliction,  and  keeping  himself  unspotted 
before  the  world  ;  "  and  my  heart  was  forced  to 
acknowledge,  that  "religion  undefiled  "  dwelt  in 
his  breast ;  that  since  the  days  when  angels  came 
down  and  conversed  with  men,  goodness  ap- 
peared not  on  the  earth  in  a  more  fascinating 
guise.  I  was  nurtured  in  a  different  belief;  I 
was  only  a  denizen  of  his  country  ;  yet,  till  I 
knew  him,  I  comprehended  not  the  impassioned 
truthfulness  of  that  passage,  "  Jonathan  loved 
David  as  his  own  soul."  It  lessened  not  the 
reverence  I  had  conceived  for  his  character,  to 
discover  that  he  was  identified  in  faith  with  a 
body  of  men  vv^ho  were  connected  with  my 
earliest  impressions  of  whatever  was  splendid  in 
talents,  liberal  in  politics,  or  amiable  in  private 
life :  I  mean  the  Remonstrant  Synod  of  Ulster, 
the  men  who  in  their  own  persons  nobly  and 
successfully  vindicated  the  rights  of  conscience, 
and  who,  in  the  most  trying  times,  "stood  for 
the  right  and  the  region,"  when  the  smiles  of 
power  would  have  rewarded  a  different  course. 


MEMOIR,  19 

I  am  deeply  sensible  of  the  feebleness  of  this 
sketch,  and  its  worthlossness  to  the  end  designed. 
Had  I  the  reqnisite  ability  to  portray  Mr.  Ingalls' 
character  as  it  deserved,  I  would  consider  any 
amount  of  labor,  for  that  purpose,  well  employed. 
The  homage  now  paid  to  his  talents  and  virtues, 
and  the  eflbrts  being  made  to  secure  them  a 
durable  monument,  by  his  former  associates,  show 
the  feelings  with  which  his  memory  is  cherished. 
Such  a  memory  as  he  bequeathed  us,  wets  the 
eye  and  sweetens  the  heart ;  and  most  sincerely 
do  I  rejoice,  that  the  task  of  embalming  it  has 
been  confided  to  the  hands  of  one  who  has 
reached  so  high  a  place  in  the  republic  of  letters. 
I  am,  respected  sir. 
Your  ob't  servant, 

Edward  Conigland. 

The  writer  of  this  cannot  forbear  here  to  break 
the  thread  of  the  narrative,  to  bestow  his  hearty 
commendation  on  literary  associations  of  young 
men  in  large  cities.  They  are,  he  believes,  pro- 
ductive of  untold  good.  They  have  their  dangers, 
of  running  into  form  and  superficial  wordiness, 
quibbling  and  pretension ;  but  the  good,  under 
all  circumstances,  overbalances  the  evil.  Intel- 
lect is  quickened,  investigation  is  stimulated, 
habits  are  formed  of  ease  and  fluency  of  speech 


20  MEMOIR. 

before  a  multitude,  and  no  mean  preparation  is 
often  made  in  these  juvenile  assemblies,  for  in- 
fluence and  efficiency  in  the  business  of  after 
life.  The  young  learn  to  discuss  with  candor 
and  fairness,  the  principal  subjects  which  must 
ever  divide  the  opinions  and  suffrages  of  man- 
kind. 

The  sphere  of  life  which  he  had  chosen  for 
himself  was  that  of  a  merchant,  and  he  accord- 
ingly became  a  clerk  in  a  dry  goods  store,  where 
he  continued  for  two  years,  giving  his  employer 
the  fullest  satisfaction.  It  is  a  pursuit  to  which 
he  was  well  fitted,  and  one  which  he  was  calcu- 
lated to  adorn.  There  was  in  him,  as  it  seemed, 
by  nature,  an  absolute  and  spontaneous  integrity, 
which,  after  all,  is  the  only  sure  foundation  for 
lasting  success.  And  it  is  one  of  the  regrets, 
which  his  early  removal  causes  in  the  minds  of 
his  friends,  that  he  was  not  spared  to  contribute 
his  share  to  adorn  and  redeem  a  profession,  which 
has,  of  late  years,  been  subjected  to  so  much  re- 
proach. 

The  idea  has  been  gaining  ground,  for  some 
years,  in  the  confusion  and  revolutions  of  mer- 
cantile affairs,  that  strict  integrity  in  a  merchant, 
so  far  from  promoting  his  success,  is  a  positive 
obstruction  to  his  prosperity.  There  is  so  much 
underhand  management  in  every  channel  of  trade, 


MEMOIR.  21 

that  he  who  conducts  his  business  on  the  princi- 
ples of  plain  honesty,  will  be  ruined,  or  at  least, 
left  behind  in  the  race,  by  the  unscrupulous  and 
unprincipled.  If  this  be  the  fact,  then  no  Chris- 
tian ought  ever  to  place  a  son  in  a  situation 
where  he  is  exposed  to  such  moral  corruption. 
But  the  proposition  is  incredible,  and  refutes  it- 
self. Trade  cannot  be  pursued,  in  this  age,  with- 
out credit.  The  precious  metals,  and  even  bank 
notes,  are  not  the  only  bases  of  exchange,  are 
not  the  only  representatives  of  value.  Personal 
character  is  always  taken  into  view  in  every 
transaction.  It  is  always  considered  whether 
there  is  the  disposition,  as  well  as  the  ability,  to 
fulfil  a  contract  ;  and  it  is  absurd  to  say,  that  he 
who  is  known  to  want  the  disposition,  while  he 
has  the  ability,  stands  on  as  good  ground,  as  he 
who  is  known  to  have  both  the  ability  and  the 
disposition.  Character  is  capital,  and  the  want 
of  it  is  the  greatest  disqualification  for  mercantile 
life.  If  trade  be,  as  it  is  represented,  inevitable 
ruin  to  integrity,  then  the  friends  of  the  subject 
of  this  notice  have  reason  to  be  thankful  that  he 
was  so  early  taken  away,  that  his  soul  passed 
into  the  spiritual  world,  unstained  by  the  pollu- 
tion which  cleaves  to  the  employment  of  buying 
and  selling. 

But  whatever  are  the  perils  of  mercantile  life, 


22 


MEMOIR. 


it  was  ordained  that  our  young  friend  should 
never  know  them.  He  did  not  quite  reach  the 
age  of  majority.  After  remaining  two  years  in 
the  employment  we  have  mentioned  above,  he 
obtained  a  situation  as  clerk  in  an  insurance  office 
in  Wall-street,  where  he  remained  till  the  ap- 
pearance of  that  fatal  malady  which  brought 
him  to  an  untimely  grave. 

There  must  have  been  in  his  constitution  a 
strong  predisposition  to  pulmonary  disease.  His 
form  indicated  it,  and  there  was  in  his  manner  a 
pensive  gentleness,  which  physiologists  have  re- 
marked as  generally  characteristic  of  the  early 
victim  of  tubercular  consumption.  It  seemed, 
moreover,  to  be  finally  developed  without  any 
exciting  cause.  As  if  in  anticipation  of  the 
shortness  of  his  time,  his  character,  before  re- 
markably mature,  from  the  first  hour  of  his  sick- 
ness, seems  to  have  developed  and  ripened  apace  ; 
and  what  is  often  the  work  of  a  long  life,  was 
concentrated  into  a  few  months  —  a  preparation 
for  new  and  higher  scenes.  It  is  not  to  be  un- 
derstood by  this,' that  the  graces  of  soul,  which 
he  then  exhibited,  began  to  exist  at  that  period, 
or  that  religion  and  duty  were  then  new  and 
strange  ideas.  They  had  been  forming  and 
brightening  in  silence  for  years.  They  had  blos- 
somed in  that  sacred  circle,  where  all  that  is  good 

• 


MEMOIR.  23 

ill  us  originates,  the  sanctuary  of  home.  lie 
had  tasted  of  its  sorrows  and  its  joys.  He 
had  there  found  endearing  objects  of  his  affec- 
tions and  his  sympathies,  sufiicient  employment 
for  liis  active  energies,  and  amusement  for  his 
leisure  hours.  lie  was  thus  saved,  by  his  do- 
mestic attachments,  from  other  temptations  which 
assail  the  unfortunate  youth,  whose  home  has  no 
attractions,  or  who  has  himself  no  preference  for 
the  society  of  mother  and  sisters,  over  the  heart- 
less companionship  of  the  thoughtless,  the  idle, 
or  the  profligate.  Sickness  merely  brought  out 
and  perfected  what  was  in  him  before.  Such  a 
decline  and  such  a  death,  could  not  have  followed 
a  heedless  or  an  ill  spent  life.  The  sad  tidings 
of  incurable  disease,  the  cold  grasp  of  inevitable 
death,  would  have  struck  with  consternation  any 
heart  which  was  not  sustained  by  the  testimony 
of  a  good  conscience. 

The  realities  to  whicli  death  must  introduce 
us,  were  not  new  subjects  of  thought  to  him. 
He  could,  therefore,  contemplate  them  calmly 
and  unmoved  ;  and  it  may  truly  be  said,  that 
young  as  he  was,  he  looked  on  the  great  event 
which  was  approaching  with  more  composure, 
thousrh  it  was  to  translate  him  to  worlds  un- 
known,  than  those  could  do,  who  were  merely  to 
lose  for  a  short  time,  a  companion  of  their  earth- 
lj4  pilgrimage. 


24 


MEMOIR. 


The  writer  of  this  has  been  favored  with  a 
detailed  account  of  his  sickness  and  death,  from 
his  physician,  which  is  here  given  nearly  in  his 
own  words.  This  document  is  most  important 
to  the  present  purpose,  as  it  conveys  a  lively 
transcript  of  the  impression  made  by  his  whole 
character,  on  one  placed  in  the  best  possible  situ- 
ation to  observe  it.  As  by  a  modern  invention, 
the  human  countenance  is  made  to  create  its  own 
image,  unerring  and  exact,  so  the  intimacy  of  the 
family  physician,  creates  in  his  mind  a  moral 
image  of  the  person,  daily  and  hourly  subjected 
to  his  observation,  as  nearly  corresponding  to  the 
original  as  any  human  estimate  can  make  it. 
The  reader  of  this  narrative  will  perceive,  from 
the  first,  that  an  impression  was  made  by  this 
young  person,  of  marked  mental  and  moral  supe- 
riority. There  is  in  it  evidently  a  spontaneous 
and  unstudied  tribute  to  rare  natural  endowment, 
and  to  a  maturity  of  mind  and  character  quite  as 
uncommon.  Wherever  he  went,  as  far  as  the 
writer  can  learn,  he  made  the  same  impression 
on  all  who  became  acquainted  with  his  char- 
acter. 

New-York,  March,  1845. 
Rev.  and  dear  Sib  : 

It  is  with  much  gratification  that  I  have 
learned  from  Mr.  Ingalls  that  you  have  consented 


MEMOIR.  26 

to  draw  up  a  biographical  sketch  of  his  deceased 
son  Henry.  The  publication  of  his  manuscripts 
has  been  a  subject  of  much  interest  to  me  ever 
since  his  death  ;  and  now  that  it  is  about  being  ac- 
complished, a  sketch  of  his  short  life,  so  pure,  so 
holy,  so  heavenly-minded  as  it  was,  to  accompany 
it,  is  a  circumstance,  to  me,  peculiarly  gratifying. 
Mr.  Ingalls  has  requested  me  to  transmit  to  you 
such  incidents  of  his  life  and  traits  of  his  charac- 
ter, as  I  may  have  been  familiar  with  during 
the  six  years  of  my  professional  acquaintance 
with  his  family,  hoping  that  it  may  be  of  some 
assistance  to  you  in  the  prosecution  of  your  work  ; 
a  request  I  most  cheerfully  comply  with. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1838  that  I  was  in- 
troduced to  the  family  of  Mr.  Ingalls,  on  the  oc- 
casion of  an  accident  happening  to  his  youngest 
daughter.  Henry  at  that  time  had  not  reached 
his  fourteenth  year;  and  although  slender  in  his 
person,  and  in  appearance  youthful,  even  for  his 
years,  presented  to  the  eye  of  an  observer  a  cast 
of  character  of  more  than  ordinary  interest.  It 
was  during  this,  and  a  temporary  illness  with 
which  his  father  was  afflicted,  but  a  few  weeks 
after  that  of  his  sister,  (mentioned  above,)  that 
those  peculiar  features  of  character  were  observed, 
so  beautifully  and  strikingly  developed  in  after 
life.  He  was  naturally  taciturn,  said  but  little, 
3 


26  MEMOIR. 

unless  something  of  more  than  ordinary  interest 
drew  him  forth;  but  his  countenance,  even  at 
that  early  age,  was  so  beautifully  expressive  of 
his  feelings,  that  I  might  almost  say,  "  words 
with  him  were  useless."  How  distinctly,  in  my 
mind's  eye,  I  even  now  behold  him,  as  he  then 
appeared  to  me,  hanging  over  his  father,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  him,  (I  had  been  letting  a  little 
blood  from  his  arm,)  solicitous  and  ready  to  ren- 
der the  smallest  assistance,  and  yet  with  feelings 
suppressed,  and  countenance  expressive  of  entire 
submission!  Ah!  how  strikingly,  how  beautifully, 
did  his  after  life  illustrate  that  heavenly  principle  ; 
"I bow  in  submission  to  the  Divine  will,"  which 
was  the  first  remark  at  the  commencement  of  his 
illness  ;  and  he  left  us  with  it  almost  lingering 
upon  his  lips.  From  the  period  just  mentioned, 
I  became  intimate  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Ingalls. 
The  succeeding  year  was  a  period  of  more  or  less 
sickness  among  its  members.  Henry  was  fre- 
quently brought  before  my  notice,  and  always, 
and  under  all  circumstances,  exhibited  that  same 
tranquil,  placid  cast  of  character — the  same 
sweet  smile  sat  upon  his  countenance,  and  a  word 
of  kindness  fell  from  his  lips  for  every  one  that 
approached  him.  It  was  not,  however,  until 
after  this,  that  I  became  acquainted  with  his  in- 
tellectual character.    He  was  naturally,  as  I  before 


MEMOIR.  27 

remarked,  somewhat  reserved  in  his  intercourse, 
particularly  with  his  seniors ;  yet,  when  drawn 
forth,  exhibiting  a  mind  well  furnished  from  our 
best  authors,  both  ancient  and  modern,  a  know- 
ledge of  the  passing  literature  of  the  day,  together 
with  a  general  acquaintance  with  science  and  the 
arts,  truly  astonishing  in  one  just  passing  from 
school-boy  days.  As  each  year  of  my  acquaint- 
ance with  him  elapsed,  my  interest  in  this  dear 
youth  increased.  I  found  him  a  close  student, 
especially  bent  upon  mental  improvement,  and  the 
cultivation  of  every  virtuous  principle  that  could 
adorn  the  mind  or  ennoble  our  race  ;  that  could 
fit  him  for  usefulness  here,  or  happiness  hereafter. 
In  addition  to  the  more  solid  branches  of  educa- 
tion, his  taste  for  music  and  drawing  was  cer- 
tainly very  remarkable.  In  the  former  he  was 
entirely  self-taught,  yet  his  performance  on  the 
piano  and  flute  was  highly  creditable  to  himself 
and  gratifying  to  his  friends.  Oh !  sir,  never,  I 
think,  was  seen  a  happier  family  than  that  of 
your  friend,  before  death  entered  its  sacred  circle. 
I  have  often  watched  them,  as  they,  together  with 
their  excellent  father,  were  surrounding  the  piano 
of  an  evening,  joining  in  one  of  the  popular  airs 
of  the  day;  and  the  thought  not  unfrequently 
pressed  upon  my  mind,  how  dire  would  be  the 
blow,  should  the  hand  of  death  be  ever  raised  to 


2S  MEMOIR. 

sever  the  ties  that  bind  this  affectionate,  happy 
group  together, — a  foreboding,  alas,  too  soon  to  be 
realized.  They  lived  for  each  other  ;  and  it  was 
here  that  the  character  of  Henry  shone  forth  with 
peculiar  lustre  —  it  was  here  that  even  his  beau- 
tiful adornments  of  mind,  his  accomplishments 
of  person,  were  thrown  into  the  shade.  Never, 
I  believe,  did  he  feel  happier  than  when  admin- 
istering to  the  comforts  or  pleasures  of  his  beloved 
parents  and  sisters,  —  this  was  his  ruling  passion, 
and  it  was  "strong  even  in  death."  "I  did 
hope,"  said  he,  a  little  before  his  death,  "  I 
did  hope  to  be  able  to  administer  to  their  com- 
forts (alluding  to  his  parents)  in  their  old  age, 
they  have  done  so  much  for  me,  — but  God's  will 
be  done." 

He  seemed  to  possess  feelings  of  unbounded 
benevolence  :  — in  his  every  suggestion,  there  ap- 
peared something  for  the  benefit  of  some  of  the 
human  family;  and  I  think  I  may  say,  without 
hesitation,  I  never,  in  all  my  walks,  knew  one  so 
entirely  free  from  the  form  or  appearance  of  any 
thing  like  selfishness.  He  seemed  to  breathe  a 
spirit  of  universal  philanthropy.  I  have  thought 
it  somewhat  remarkable,  that  in  the  sickness 
occurring  at  various  times  in  the  family  of  Mr. 
Ingalls,  I  never  had  had  my  attention  called  to 
Henry,  until  six  months  before  his  death.     So 


MEMOIR.  29 

perfect  had  his  health  been,  that  I  think  I  have 
since  heard  his  father  say,  that  never,  since  his 
infancy,  had  it  been  necessary  to  call  for  him  a 
physician.  During  the  year  preceding  his  death, 
I  had  seen  but  comparatively  little  of  him  ;  he 
being  engaged  during  the  day  in  his  clerkship, 
and  opportunities  of  meeting  in  the  evening  had 
not  been  frequent,  so  that  any  other  idea  than 
that  of  his  being  in  perfect  health,  never  once 
entered  my  mind  ;  neither  had  any  thing  been 
observed  by  his  family,  until  a  little  more  than 
six  months  before  his  death  ;  so  silently  and  se- 
cretly had  the  destroyer  done  his  work.  It  was 
in  the  early  part  of  November,  that  he  called  on 
me  one  morning  to  get  something  for  his  cough, 
which  was  only  in  compliance  with  his  father's 
wishes,  as  he  said  it  only  troubled  him  in  the 
morning.  His  appearance  gave  me  no  uneasiness, 
and  he  assured  me,  that  he  otherwise  felt  quite 
well.  I  gave  him  a  remedy,  and  after  a  few  vis- 
its, he  said  it  had  left  him,  and  he  felt  in  perfect 
health.  The  thing  passed  from  my  mind,  until 
the  latter  part  of  December,  when  accidentally 
meeting  him  one  day  at  his  house,  he  mentioned 
he  had  within  a  few  days  become  very  weak. 
This  symptom  greatly  alarmed  me,  and  I  imme- 
diately took  him  nnder  medical  treatment.  Re- 
luctantly he  consented  to  give  up  his  business  for 


30  MEMOIR. 

a  few  days  ;  a  duty,  alas,  to  which  he  never  re- 
turned. A  few  weeks'  closer  investigation  of  his 
disease,  still  further  excited  alarm,  inducing  the 
fear,  that  it  was  of  much  longer  standing  than  at 
first  was  apprehended.     At  this  period,  I  thought 

proper  to  call  in   to  my  aid  Dr.  J.  M.  S ,  a 

gentleman  who  has  for  the  last  fifteen  years 
held  the  chair  of  the  theory  and  practice  of  me- 
dicine in  the  medical  college  of  our  city ;  and 
who  is  considered  inferior  to  none  among  us  in 
the  treatment  of  this  particular  disease.  Our 
united  opinion  was,  that  there  was  no  decided 
disease  of  the  lungs,  although  a  strong  predispo- 
sition that  way.  A  course  of  treatment  was  pro- 
posed, from  which,  should  no  relief  be  obtained, 
it  was  agreed  to  seek  another  climate.  The  pro- 
posed time  of  a  fortnight  rapidly  passed  round, 
but  brought  with  it  no  relief,  although  there  ap- 
peared no  aggravation  of  the  unfavorable  symp- 
toms, and  we  lost  no  time  in  making  preparations 
for  our  departure.  Savannah,  and  from  thence 
to  the  Floridas,  for  various  reasons,  had  been  se- 
lected as  our  place  of  refuge  from  the  dreaded 
onset.  Accordingly,  we  took  passage  on  board 
the  brig  Exact,  bound  for  Savannah.  Our  dear 
invalid  bore  the  fatigues  incidental  to  leaving 
home,  and  a  large  circle  of  friends,  with  that 
composure  and  serenity  of  mind,  so   peculiarly 


MEMOIR. 


31 


his  own  ;  and  indeed  seemed  better,  and  more 
cheerful ;  so  that,  fall  of  hope,  on  the  morning  of 
the  seventh  of  February,  we  set  out  on  our  jour- 
ney to  the  simny  south.  The  day  was  remark- 
ably fine  for  the  season,  and  quite  calm  ;  we 
passed  slowly  down  the  river,  and  towards  night 
anchored  in  the  lower  bay,  intending  not  to  put 
to  sea  until  morning.  How  often,  since  that 
period,  has  my  mind  reverted  to  this  memorable 
evening  !  I  know  of  no  time,  from  the  first  dawn 
of  his  disease,  when  my  hopes  were  so  high  ;  we 
were  gathered  together  in  the  cabin,  — our  dear 
Henry  was  so  much  himself ;  his  cough  through 
the  day  had  been  so  trifling  ;  his  sweet  smile 
was  playing  on  his  countenance,  while  he  talked 
cheerfully,  looking  forward  to  a  return,  with 
health  regained,  to  his  "  sweet  home,"  and  circle 
of  kind  friends.  The  hour  was  late,  and  we  be- 
gan to  think  of  retiring.  It  was  just  then  that 
Henry  quietly  took  up  a  flute  that  had  been  lay- 
ing near  him,  and  placing  it  to  his  lips,  began, 
with  peculiar  sweetness,  the  Scottish  air  of  "  Ye 
banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon."  It  was  a  little 
incident,  my  dear  sir  ;  but  now,  while  I  am  wri- 
ting, methinks  I  can  almost  hear  the  notes  of 
that  evening  floating  across  the  air  ;  there  seemed 
something  unearthly  in  the  sounds.  They  were 
the  last  he  ever  played.     Our  passage  was  full  of 


33  MEMOIR. 

hope  and   fear :  the  first  two  days   were   very 
rough  ;  the   next  was   pleasant,  and  we  all   felt 
mnch  better,  while  the  appetite  of  our  invalid  re- 
turned, and  he  seemed  very  comfortable.     The 
next  day  was  the  Sabbath,  and  a  delightful  day 
indeed  it  proved  to  us.     Henry  sat  up  nearly  the 
whole    day ;  he    walked    the    deck,    and   really 
seemed  to   enjoy  himself.     During  the  day,  he 
expressed  a  desire    to  hear   read  one  of  his  pas- 
tor's (Dr.  Dewey's)  sermons.    I  accordingly  chose, 
at  his  request,  "  Religion  as  the  great  sentiment 
of  Life."     He  listened  very  attentively  to   the 
words  of  exhortation,  occasionally  dropping  such 
remarks  as  the  subject  suggested.     In  the  after- 
noon he  again  expressed  a  wish  to  hear  another 
of  these   affectionate  discourses.     It  seemed  to 
bring  home  very  near  to  him,  and  all  those  he 
most  tenderly  loved.     Thus  passed  our  first  Sab- 
bath on  the  ocean ;  it  was  a  day  long  to   be   re- 
membered, and  with  grateful  hearts  did  we  retire 
to  our  rest  that  night,  thankful  to  our  Heavenly 
Parent  that  we  were  allowed  to  indulge   even 
in  hope.     Our  voyage  was  considered,  on  the 
whole,  a  remarkably  fine  one  ;  and  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  sixth  day  from  our  leaving   Sandy 
Hook,  we  arrived  safely  at  Savannah. 

We  disembarked  on  the  evening  of  the  13th 
of  February  ;  and  having  obtained  comfortable 


MEMOIR. 


33 


lodgings,  were  all  soon  enjoying  a  refreshing 
sleep.  Hitherto,  every  thing  seemed  to  favor  us 
with  regard  to  tlie  restoration  of  our  beloved 
Henry  to  health  ;  our  voyage  had  been  a  jjleasant 
one,  remarkably  so  for  the  season  ;  he  had  been 
benefited  by  it ;  and  now  we  were  favored  by  a 
continuance  of  fine  weather,  finer  than  it  gener- 
ally is  at  this  season,  even  in  this  charming 
region.  The  morning  after  our  arrival,  the  sun 
rose  upon  one  of  the  most  delightful  days  ever 
witnessed ;  the  sweet  south  wind  was  wafted  in 
upon  us  as  we  sat  by  the  open  window,  every 
breath  of  which  seemed  to  revive  my  patient, 
who  had  now  become  so  dear  to  me,  that  every 
breath  he  drew  was  watched  with  the  deepest 
interest.  During  the  day,  he  took  a  long  ride, 
came  back  much  refreshed,  and  after  enjoying  a 
short  sleep,  arose  and  dined  with  us  at  the  public 
table  ;  during  the  afternoon,  enjoyed  the  visits  of 
several  friends,  to  whom  we  had  letters,  and  re- 
tired early,  evidently  much  improved.  It  was  at 
this  time,  after  all  was  quiet,  that  his  excellent 
father  put  to  me  the  question,  (with  a  depth  of 
interest  that  may  be  conceived,  but  not  de- 
scribed,) "  whether,  indeed,  he  might  not  noio 
indulge  a  hope  ?  "  To  which  I  was  forced  to 
reply,  "a  hope,  but  that  is  all."  Henry's  disease, 
from  the  first,  had  appeared  to  Dr.  S and 


34  MEMOIR. 

myself,  thus :  a  small  spot  (not  probably  larger 
than  a  dollar)  of  tuberculous  deposite,  was  evi- 
dently forming  in  the  superior  portion  of  the  left 
lung ;  our  object  was  to  prevent  its  extension,  as 
well  as  its  softening  into  matter,  from  which 
would  probably  be  formed  an  abscess,  a  state  of 
things  which  would  immediately  extinguish  all 
hope.  It  was  a  case  in  which  medicine  could 
do  but  little;  my  principal  dependence  was  an 
avoidance  of  all  exciting  causes,  exercise  in  the 
open  air,  diet,  &c.  Two  months  had  now  passed 
by,  and  yet  there  appeared  no  increase  of  the 
disease  ;  and  thus  far,  room  was  left  for  hope. 
Among  the  letters  we  were  favored  with,  to 
friends  at  Savannah,  was  one  from  Henry's  much- 
loved  pastor,  Dr.  Dewey,  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Clapp, 
pastor  of  the  Unitarian  congregation  of  that  place. 
To  this  gentleman,  1  feel  much  indebted  for  his 
many  acts  of  kindness  to  me,  personally,  as  well 
as  his  unremitting  attentions  to  my  patient,  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  his  residence  at  Savannah. 
His  intercourse  with  him  was  of  such  a  charac- 
ter, as  to  enable  him  to  furnish  much  that  will 
be  of  value  to  you,  I  have  no  doubt,  in  the 
prosecution  of  your  work.  Through  Mr.  Clapp, 
I  was,  at  my  request,  made  acquainted  with  Dr. 
A ,  a  valued  friend  with  whom  I  was  de- 
sirous of  consulting ;  and  as  my  absence  from 


MEJfOIR.  35 

home  could  not  be  coiilinuod  beyond  a  few 
weeks,  I  was  solicitous  to  leave  him  the  charge 
of  my  patient.  In  conjunction  with  him  again, 
before  my  departure,  a  critical  examination  was 
made  of  the  state  of  his  chest.  I  was  gratified 
to  find  the  disease  still  very  circumscribed,  hav- 
ing made  no  progress  within  now  nearly  three 
months,  and  that  his  general  health  had  much 
improved.  But,  ah  !  what  a  treacherous  disease 
is  consumption  ;  delaying  oftentimes  in  its  pro- 
gress, just  long  enough  to  allow  us  to  build  ilp 
our  hopes,  and  then  hurrying  its  victim  with  rapid 
strides  to  the  close  of  life,  as  if  more  than  to 
make  up  for  the  momentary  delay  !    I  was  happy 

to  find  in   Dr.  A ,  an   entire  concurrence  of 

opinion  as  to  the  plan  of  treatment  to  be  pursued. 
I  accordingly  made  my  preparations  to  return 

homeward,  having  agreed  with  Dr.  A ,  that 

our  patient  was  to  remain  at  Savannah,  or  pass 
on  to  Florida,  according  as  his  health,  or  the 
state  of  the  weather,  might  render  it  desirable. 

The  season,  however,  was  so  far  advanced, 
and  there  being  a  prospect  of  the  mild  weather's 
continuance,  k  was  thought  highly  probable  that 
Savannah  would  be  the  permanent  place  of  so- 
journ, until  his  return  north.  Accordingly,  it 
became  necessary  to  remove  our  lodgings  from 
the  public  house  to  a  more  retired  location  ;  and 


36  MEMOIR. 

here  we  were  singularly  fortunate  in  procuring 
accommodations  in  a  private  family,  whose  kind- 
ness and  attentions  to  our  invalid  during  his 
whole  stay  at  Savannah  were  unremitting  ;  they 
were  remembered  by  him  as  long  as  life  lasted; 
and  after  his  return  home  were  often  referred  to 
with  feelings  of  the  warmest  gratitude. 

Indeed,  the  kind  attentions  of  many  friends 
at  Savannah  call  forth,  even  at  this  day,  our 
best  thanks.  Should  any  of  them  be  so  situated 
as  to  need  the  acts  of  kindness  they  extended  to 
our  invalid,  I  trust  they  may  meet  with  those 
who  will  as  deeply  sympathize  with  them,  as 
they  did  with  us ;  and  then,  and  only  then,  can 
they  fully  appreciate  our  feelings  of  thankful- 
ness. 

On  the  17th  of  February,  I  bade  adieu  to  my 
friends  and  my  dear  patient,  with  whom  now  for 
weeks  I  had  been  continually  in  the  closest  con- 
tact, and  with  whom  I  thought  it  highly  proba- 
ble I  might  again  never  meet  on  this  side  the 
grave.  I  shall  never  forget  his  farewell,  his 
affecting  farewell.  I  can  now  see  his  bright 
eyes  suffused  with  tears,  can  feel  his  feeble  arms 
thrown  about  my  neck  :  he  uttered  not  a  word — 
his  countenance  bespoke  all  he  felt. 

I  returned  home  by  land,  and  shortly  after 
my  arrival  received  from  him  a  letter  stating, 


MEMOIR. 


37 


very  clearly,  that  he  felt  himself  daily  increasing 
in  strength ;  that  he  rode  out,  continually  enjoy- 
ing the  society  of  the  kind  friends  he  had  met 
with  there.  This  continued  until  the  early  part 
of  April,  when  it  hecame  very  evident,  from 
his  handwriting,  that  there  was  a  decrease  of 
strength.  It  became  tremulous,  instead  of  the 
usually  bold  and  manly  style  natural  to  him.  I 
felt  that  my  worst  fears  were  now  about  to  be 
realized,  apprehending  that  the  loss  of  strength 
and  nerve  could  arise  from  no  other  cause  than 
the  formation  of  the  much  dreaded  abscess. 
Soon  after  I  received  a  communication  from  Dr. 
A.,  confirming  the  fact.  I  immediately  wrote  to 
Mr.  Ingalls,  urging  his  instant  return  ;  this  he 
did  by  easy  journeys  by  land,  during  which  you 
had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  him  when  passing 
through  your  city.  And  here  let  me  pause  a 
moment  in  my  narrative  to  remark,  that  the  resi- 
dence of  Henry  at  Savannah  formed  an  interest- 
ing period  of  his  life,  and  especially  showed 
forth  in  a  clearer  light  than  any  former  period 
the  religious  state  of  his  mind  ;  and  this  will  be 
furnished  you  by  our  mutual  friend,  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Clapp.  I  might  also  remark  here,  that  he 
was,  in  my  view,  most  conscientiously  attached 
to  his  particular  faith,  yet  breathing  at  all  times 
a  most  catholic  spirit.     I  might  relate  a  little  in- 

4G2444    ; 


38  MEMOIR. 

cident  by  way  of  illustration  during  our  journey. 
We  had  of  course  been  constantly  in  close  contact, 
yet  separated  in  our  morning  and  evening  devo- 
tions ;  this  appeared  to  me  wrong ;  that  two  im- 
mortal beings,  bound  to  the  same  eternal  world, 
could  not  worship  the  great  Author  of  their  being 
in  unison,  seemed  to  me  an  absurdity.  One  morn- 
ing, my  book  of  Common  Prayer  laid  on  the 
table,  and  I  observed  he  had  but  a  few  minutes 
before  been  reading  it.  I  asked  him  if  he  were 
familiar  with  the  prayers ;  he  said  he  was,  and 
thought  them  very  beautiful.  And  could  you,  I 
remarked,  join  with  me  in  the  morning  and 
evening  family  prayers,  which  you  doubtless  have 
looked  over  ?  "  With  pleasure,"  he  replied,  "  al- 
though I  might  mentally  put  a  different  con- 
struction on  certain  expressions  from  what  you 
would."  It  was  enough — from  that  morning  be- 
gan our  united  prayers  to  the  Giver  of  all  good, 
and  I  believe  were  never  once  omitted  while  we 
remained  together. 

It  was  at  this  point  of  his  sad  progress  toward 
the  tomb,  that  he  became  known  to  the  writer  of 
this  memoir.  His  sister,  younger  than  himself, 
came  as  far  as  Baltimore  to  meet  him  on  his  re- 
turn from  the  south,  and  was  my  guest  till  his 
arrival.     She   had  evidently  no  idea  of  his  des- 


MEMOIR. 


39 


perate  condition,  and  expected  to  see  him  reno- 
vated in  strength,  or  at  least  in  no  worse  condi- 
tion than  when  he  went  from  home.  She  daily- 
spoke  of  her  anticipated  pleasure  in  seeing  him 
comparatively  well.  Forming  my  own  anticipa- 
tions by  hers,  I  too  expected  to  see  him,  if  not 
recovered,  yet  restored  to  comparative  health. 

I  had  not  seen  him  more  than  once  since  boy- 
hood, and  I  recollected  him  rather  as  a  sedate, 
reflective,  retiring  child,  than  as  a  young  man, 
mature  in  mind,  settled  in  character,  and  full 
grown  in  stature.  The  first  intimation  we  had 
of  his  approach,  was  the  present  of  a  box  of 
strawberries,  sent  us  just  at  evening,  by  him,  on 
his  arrival  in  the  steamboat  from  Norfolk.  This 
delicious  fruit  was  not  then  ripe  in  our  latitude. 
From  this,  I  augured  favorably  as  to  the  condition 
of  his  health.  To  me,  it  did  not  seem  possible 
that  any  one  could  be  so  thoughtfid  of  others, 
who  was  himself  an  invalid,  and  in  the  last 
stages  of  weakness  and  decline.  It  was  all  ex- 
plained, however,  when  I  became  acquainted 
with  his  character. 

I  attended  his  sister  to  the  hotel,  with  raised, 
and  rather  pleasant  anticipations.  He  had  re- 
tired to  his  room,  though  not  to  rest.  He  first 
saw  his  sister  alone.  I  was  soon  sent  for,  and 
followed  to  his  room.     It  was  a    scene  which  I 


40  MEMOIR. 

shall  never  forget.  The  door  was  opened, — 
and  a  glance  revealed  all.  He  was  sitting  up, 
and  rose  with  difficulty  to  receive  me, — the  very 
picture  of  consumption,  pale,  thin,  M'eak,  and 
panting  for  breath  ;  yet  there  was  in  his  bearing, 
a  calmness,  a  dignity,  a  resigned  meekness  of 
expression,  which  awed,  at  the  same  time  they 
touched  the  feelings.  He  evidently  labored  to  do 
his  best,  in  order  to  mitigate,  if  possible,  the 
shock  which  his  condition  was  manifestly  giving 
a  sister  whom  he  tenderly  loved,  and  from  whom 
he  had  never  perhaps  before  been  so  long  sepa- 
rated, since  they  had  played  together  around 
their  mother's  knee.  What  a  withering  of  hope 
was  there !  an  only  son,  meeting  his  eldest 
sister,  both  in  the  very  bloom  of  life,  bearing  in 
every  limb  and  feature  the  sad  evidence  that  he 
would  soon  be  her  companion  no  more  !  The 
first  moral  trait  which  struck  me  at  this  inter- 
•view,  was  an  entire  forgetfulness  of  himself, 
and  solicitude  for  others.  There  was  a  total 
absence  of  that  anxiety  for  his  personal  com- 
forts, which  long  sickness  too  often  produces. 
The  claims  of  indisposition  were  instantly 
waived,  to  give  place  to  those  of  courtesy,  and 
the  drooping  invalid  was  the  last  to  be  consid- 
ered. 

I  had   seen  many  cases  of  consumption  ;  and 


MEMOIR.  41 

my  eye,  by  long  practice,  had  become  nearly  un- 
erring in  detecting  its  presence,  and  foreseeing  its 
issue.  The  whole  future  came  up  in  a  mo- 
ment before  my  mind.  That  marble  brow  had 
already  assumed  its  last  whiteness;  those  glassy, 
earnest  eyes,  must  soon  look  their  last ;  those 
emaciated  hands  were  soon  to  rest  from  their 
appointed  task  ;  soon  that  youthful  form  will  be 
seen  no  more  !  Such  thoughts,  only  infmitely 
more  bitter,  seemed  to  occupy  the  mind  of  my 
companion.  Still,  she  bore  the  interview  with 
admirable  fortitude,  I  may  say  with  cheerfulness, 
and  gave  no  external  sign  of  the  agony  she  suf- 
fered within.  In  compassion  to  his  weakness 
and  weariness,  we  made  our  interview  short. 
We  closed  the  door  after  us,  and  paced  the  long, 
silent  passage  together,  without  speaking  a  word. 
The  first  attempt  to  speak  brought  with  it  a 
flood  of  tears.  "  It  will  kill  my  father,  it  will 
kill  my  father.  He  never  can  be  well ;  what* 
will  become  of  us?"  I  could  not  conscientiously 
utter  a  syllable  of  hope,  for  I  saw  there  was 
none,  and  I  therefore  suffered  her  grief  to  find 
its  natural  relief. 

The  next  day  he  came  to  my  house,  and  there, 

in  the  family  circle,  I  became  fully  acquainted 

with  the  trnly  Christian  graces  of  his  mind  and 

character.     He  seemed  to  me,  on  more  intimate 

4 


42  MEMOIR. 

knowledge,  to  be  a  person  of  rare  natural  tem- 
perament and  moral  constitution.  He  appeared 
to  have  never  had  anything  to  unlearn,  never  to 
have  contracted  any  of  those  obliquities,  which 
the  young  are  too  apt  to  incur  in  their  intercourse 
with  a  corrupted  world.  He  seemed  to  be  good 
without  effort,  because  the  right,  the  just,  the 
true  and  the  generous,  was  the  first  and  only 
thought  that  was  suggested  to  his  mind.  Older 
persons  looked  on  him  with  astonishment,  as 
having,  at  the  very  commencement  of  his  career, 
made  attainments  in  excellence  which  usually 
come  only  with  a  long  life  of  religious  experi- 
ence. He  was  especially  free  from  one  of  the 
most  besetting  sins  of  the  young  of  this  country 
and  this  age,  irreverence,  want  of  respect  for 
his  elders.  It  was  a  precept  of  the  Mosaic  dis- 
pensation, "  Thou  shalt  rise  up  before  the  hoary 
head,  and  honor  the  face  of  the  old  man,  and 
'fear  thy  God."  It  was  a  precept  too,  which  had 
a  more  important  bearing  on  individual  character 
and  the  welfare  of  society,  than  may,  at  first 
sight,  appear.  Reverence  always  flows  from  a 
sound  mind  and  a  good  heart.  Wherever  it  is 
absent,  there  is  something  wanting,  or  something 
wrong.  The  want  of  this  disposition  is  a  bad 
indication  every  way  ;  it  is  too  often  the  incipi- 
ent stage  of  a  general  recklessness.     It  is  signifi- 


MEMOIR.  43 

cant  to  observe  the  connection  in  which  respect 
for  the  aged  is  placed  with  piety  to  God  ;  "  Thou 
shalt  rise  up  before  the  hoary  head,  and  honor 
the  face  of  the  old  man,  and  fear  thy  God,''^  in- 
timating that  these  two  duties  are  generally 
joined  together,  either  in  performance  or  neglect. 
And  certainly,  the  want  of  a  disposition  to 
venerate  what  is  venerable  in  man,  will  lead  to 
want  of  reverence  to  God.  I  know  not  why  it 
is,  but  there  is  evidently  a  decline  of  proper  re- 
spect in  the  young  for  their  elders,  in  this  coun- 
try ;  and  this  same  spirit  of  irreverence  yearly 
blights  the  prospects  of  multitudes.  It  early 
leads  them  to  despise  the  restraints  of  law  and 
order,  set  at  defiance  the  moral  sense  of  the  com- 
munity, and  thus  make  shipwreck  of  their  pros- 
pects in  the  very  morning  of  life. 

At  the  greatest  possible  distance  from  this  un- 
promising disposition,  Avas  the  character  of  our 
young  friend.  I  doubt  if  his  most  intimate  com- 
panions can  recollect  his  ever  indulging  in  a  sneer. 
His  heart  was  too  good,  his  feelings  too  kind  and 
candid,  to  allow  him  to  pour  contempt  on  the 
weaknesses,  or  even  the  vices,  of  erring,  suffer- 
ing humanity.  He  had  that  divine  charity 
''  which  thinketh  no  evil." 

There  was,  most  obvious  to  every  observer, 
another  trait  in  the  character  of  our  young  friend, 


¥ 


44 


MEMOIR. 


nearly  allied  to  that  of  which  I  have  just  spoken, 
—  a  hearty  earnestness.  We  too  often  find  the 
young,  at  a  very  early  period,  completely  initi- 
ated into  the  manners  of  artificial  society  ;  already 
accustomed  to  measure  every  word  and  action  by 
considerations  of  expediency.  Those  who  have 
intercourse  with  them,  are  compelled  at  once  to 
assume  the  same  caution,  which  they  would  use 
were  they  conversing  with  a  diplomatist.  This 
is  called,  and  often  boasted  of,  as  knowledge  of 
the  world.  It  may  be,  but  it  is  a  knowledge  of 
the  world  in  the  worst  sense  ;  a  knowledge  of 
its  vices,  which  it  is  much  better  to  be  without. 
It  is  a  knowledge,  which  is  possessed  in  its  per- 
fection by  the  very  worst  classes  of  society  ;  and 
is  too  often,  itself,  the  indication  of  deep  de- 
pravity. However  it  may  be  called  knowledge, 
it  is  not  wisdom,  unless  it  be  that  wisdom,  which 
is  condemned  by  the  Apostle,  as  "earthly,  sen- 
sual, devilish."  Of  all  species  of  wisdom,  it  is 
the  most  unprofitable  ;  it  helps  no  one,  but 
rather  destroys  confidence,  and  puts  every  one 
upon  his  guard,  lest  he  be  deceived  and  over- 
reached by  it.  It  precludes  at  once  all  genuine 
and  hearty  communion.  It  creates  an  uncom- 
fortable feeling  of  insecurity.  It  tends  to  isolate 
each  individual,  and  destroy,  at  the  outset,  all  the 
pleasures  of  society. 


MEMOIR.  45 

There  is  another  wisdom,  which  is  infinitely 
better ;  the  wisdom  which  cometh  from  above, 
which  is  "  pure,  peaceable,  gentle,"  and  without 
disguise.  This  is  the  wisdom  which  opens  all 
hearts,  instead  of  shutting  them  up  ;  which  wins 
its  way  without  effort,  where  cunning  is  resisted  ; 
which  finds  itself  at  home  and  at  ease  with  those 
whose  friendship  is  most  valuable,  and  whose 
society  is  most  desirable. 

It  was  this  quality  in  our  young  friend,  which, 
perhaps,  more  than  any  other,  made  him  such  a 
universal  favorite.  It  is  so  refreshing  to  meet 
with  an  unsophisticated  heart,  in  the  dusty,  worn 
and  weary  paths  of  this  life,  —  it  is  like  a  foun- 
tain in  a  desert,  like  verdure  in  the  sands.  It 
was  impossible  to  approach  him  without  feeling 
—  "  here  we  have  a  true  man,  an  Israelite  in- 
deed, in  whom  is  no  guile  ;  "  one  whose  pur- 
poses are  good,  whose  words  are  sincere,  whose 
feelings  need  no  disguise. 

Such  a  trait  of  character  as  this,  fitted  him  for 
eminent  success  in  life.  He  would  have  had  the 
very  first  requisite  for  advancement,  the  confi- 
dence and  best  wishes  of  good  men.  This,  to  a 
young  man,  is  a  tower  of  strength.  He  builds 
his  house  upon  a  rock,  and  it  will  stand.  The 
cunning  and  the  false  have  never  a  secure  foun- 
dation ;  they  build  upon  the  sand,  and  if  so,  the 
proudest  structure  is  ever  tottering  to  its  fall. 


46  MEMOIR. 

As  a  counterpart  to  this  perfect  transparency 
of  character,  there  was  in  him  a  true  generosity 
of  heart.  The  finest  natures  are  ever  most  liable 
to  be  perverted  by  ambition.  The  love  of  excel- 
lence is  always  strongly  developed  in  those  who 
have  the  capacities  for  excelling.  While  it  is 
restricted  to  its  legitimate  object,  an  aspiration  to 
what  is  noble  and  praiseworthy,  it  produces  noth- 
ing but  good.  But  it  is  capable  of  being  per- 
verted into  emulation,  jealousy,  envy,  detraction, 
and  then  it  exerts  the  worst  influence  upon  the 
character.  It  immediately  disturbs  the  harmony 
of  social  life.  "  There  arose  a  strife  among  them, 
which  of  them  should  be  the  greatest."  Strife 
is  ever  the  immediate  fruit  of  the  degeneracy  of 
the  love  of  excellence  into  mere  ambition.  We 
too  often  see  the  young  poisoned  by  this  perver- 
sion, at  a  very  early  period  of  life.  It  is  this  se- 
cret feeling  of  emulation,  which  is  at  the  bottom 
of  that  love  of  scandal  and  detraction,  which  is 
such  a  disgrace  to  a  Christian  community.  The 
vices,  the  follies  or  the  misfortunes  of  others, 
answer  the  same  purpose  as  our  own  virtues,  tal- 
ents or  success,  in  deciding  the  all-important 
question,  "which  shall  be  the  greatest."  It  is 
utterly  impossible  for  a  person,  possessing  this 
spirit,  to  be  fair  and  candid.  The  whole  ten- 
dency of  his  conversation  will  be,  to  display  what 


MEMOIR.  47 

he  possesses,  and  indicate  what  other  people  want. 
Accordingly,  we  too  often  find  the  young  so  con- 
taminated with  this  feeling,  that  all  generosity 
and  candor  of  disposition  are  eaten  out  by  a 
reckless  spirit  of  ridicule  and  detraction.  To  this 
heartless  propensity  nothing  is  sacred.  The 
weaknesses,  the  sorrows,  the  misfortunes,  and 
even  the  vices  of  humanity,  are  the  common  sub- 
jects of  merriment  or  contempt.  Such  is  the  uni- 
versal imperfection  of  the  human  character  and 
condition,  that  those  who  choose  to  indulge  this 
disposition  to  ill  nature,  can  never  long  want  em- 
ployment. No  lot,  no  character,  is  perfect ;  and 
if  the  observer  fixes  his  regard  alone  on  what  is 
displeasing,  or  censurable,  he  will,  sooner  or  later, 
take  pleasure  in  noticing  nothing  else.  The 
habit  of  ridicule  and  detraction  will  increase  on 
him  by  indulgence,  till  at  length  his  whole  char- 
acter will  become  sour  and  misanthropic. 

The  young,  in  their  desire  for  amusement,  are 
not  aware  of  the  tendency  of  such  unjust  and 
impolitic  conduct.  They  are  not  aware,  that  it 
is  impossible  to  regard  with  respect,  or  treat  with 
kindness,  those  whom  we  are  accustomed  to  as- 
sociate with  low  and  degrading  ideas.  Their 
manners  will  become  affected  by  their  sentiments, 
and  they  will  become  unfeeling,  disrespectful, 
and  insolent  to  all.    No  trait  of  character  is  more 


48  MEMOIR. 

deservedly  odious  than  this.  The  very  bearing 
of  such  a  person  is  a  perpetual  defiance  to  soci- 
ety, and  is  felt,  especially  by  the  defenceless  and 
the  dependent,  as  a  continual  insult.  It  is  utterly 
impossible  for  a  young  man  to  prosper  and  be 
happy  under  such  a  load  of  odium  as  is  sure  to 
accumulate  upon  the  insolent  and  presumptuous. 
Instead  of  lending  him  aid,  there  will  be  an  unan- 
imous desire  to  see  him  put  down.  His  enemies 
will  be  nearly  as  numerous  as  his  acquaintance  ; 
and  he  who  has  no  friends,  must  finally  come  to 
nothing. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  young  man  who 
was  more  opposite  to  all  this,  than  our  young 
friend.  I  question  whether  he  was  ever  heard  to 
depreciate  a  rival,  or  seen  to  take  pleasure  in  de- 
tailing the  weaknesses  or  the  vices  of  a  human 
being.  The  consequence  of  these  characteristics 
was,  that  wherever  he  went,  he  immediately  con- 
ciliated the  esteem  and  won  the  favor  of  all.  All 
who  became  acquainted  with  him,  felt  them- 
selves at  home,  in  the  society  of  one  whom  they 
could  love  as  a  friend  and  trust  as  a  brother. 

I  should  leave  his  social  character  imperfect, 
were  I  to  omit  to  speak  of  his  manners.  These 
were  dignified,  gentle,  considerate,  obliging. 
They  were  not  the  result  of  the  study  of  artificial 
rules,  nor  the  promptings  of  vanity,  nor  the  cal- 


MEMOIR.  49 

dilations  of  selfishness.  They  were  the  free  and 
spontaneous  expression  of  his  whole  character. 
He  always  acted  with  propriety,  because  he 
always  felt  right.  He  treated  others  with  respect, 
because  he  felt  respect  for  them.  He  forbore  to 
wound  the  sensibilities  of  any,  because  he  could 
not  do  so  without  inflicting  greater  pain  upon  his 
own.  He  sacrificed  his  own  convenience  to  that 
of  others,  because  it  gave  him  greater  pleasure  to 
please  others  than  to  please  himself.  He  was 
truly  courteous,  not  in  empty  compliments,  which 
are  merely  lip  service,  but  in  that  deference, 
which  is  really  more  flattering  than  any  device  of 
mere  words.  He  made  you  feel,  that  good  man- 
ners are  nothing  more  than  Christianity  carried 
into  little  things,  and  made  practical  in  the  com- 
mon intercourse  of  every  day.  It  is  merely  to 
love  our  neighbors  as  ourselves. 

But  the  good  manners  which  proceed  from  true 
Christianity,  have  greatly  the  advantage  of  those 
which  are  dictated  by  policy,  pride,  or  artificial 
rules.  They  are  universal,  "  without  partiality 
and  without  hypocrisy."  The  good  manners  of 
the  worldly,  which  are  studied  as  an  accomplish- 
ment, and  practised  as  an  art,  have  reference  only 
to  equals  or  superiors.  Inferiors  are  not  taken 
into  consideration.  This  very  fact  demonstrates, 
that  they  have  their  root  in  selfishness,  and  are 


50  MEMOIR. 

dictated,  not  by  a  sense  of  duty,  nor  a  feeling  of 
benevolence,  nor  yet  a  sentiment  of  justice,  but 
a  desire  to  stand  well  with  those  who  can  pro- 
mote or  obstruct  our  interests.  The  proficient 
in  a  merely  worldly  good  breeding,  is  often  totally 
forgetful,  that  those  who  are  his  inferiors,  or  de- 
pendents, have  feelings  as  well  as  himself.  To 
them  Jie  is  often  inconsiderate,  cruel  and  oppres- 
sive. But  that  to  him  is  no  breach  of  good  man- 
ners, for  he  hardly  puts  them  in  the  category  of 
humanity.  But  how  infinitely  short  does  this 
come  of  the  requisitions  of  Christianity !  Good 
manners,  in  the  worldly  sense  of  the  term,  have 
been  possessed  by  some  of  the  greatest  profli- 
gates the  world  has  ever  seen.  In  that  sense, 
they  have  been  defined  to  be,  "  The  art  of  pleas- 
ing." And  does  not  this  very  definition  show 
that  it  has  self  at  the  bottom  of  it  ?  The  art  of 
pleasing  whom  ?  Those  whose  friendship  may 
be  of  any  service  to  us,  or  whose  resentment  may 
injure  us.  Their  feelings  must  be  respected,  their 
favor  must  be  won.  But  are  not  those  whom 
the  world  places  below  us,  possessed  of  human 
feelings  too  ?  Is  not  their  happiness  to  be  con- 
sulted, as  well  as  that  of  those  who  are  able  to 
take  care  of  themselves  ?  In  the  Christian  sense 
of  the  term,  manners  comprehend  our  whole  in- 
tercourse with  our  fellow  men,  with  all  whose 


MEMOIR.  51 

happiness  is  affected  by  our  bearing  and  conduct ; 
and  the  true  Christian  will  be  more  careful  of 
the  feelings  of  those  below  than  those  above  him  ; 
they  can  vindicate  their  rights,  while  the  other 
must  submit  in  silence.  Every  honorable  feel- 
ing in  the  human  heart  revolts  at  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  weak  and  defenceless  ;  yet  the  very 
definition  of  good  manners,  makes  them  to  be, 
the  art  of  pleasing  those  whose  good  will  may 
be  of  service  to  us,  while  it  overlooks  entirely 
the  claims  of  those  who  stand  most  in  need  of 
our  courtesy  and  forbearance. 

There  is  no  word  in  the  English  language 
more  perverted  than  the  word  gentleman.  It 
ought  to  be  a  good  word,  and  comprehend  every 
thing  that  is  honorable  in  principle,  that  is  just 
in  sentiment,  that  is  humane  in  feeling,  that  is 
kind  and  courteous  in  conduct.  As  it  is,  it  has 
become  almost  an  epithet  of  contempt,  for  it  is 
consistent  with  every  thing  mean  and  despicable. 
In  some  latitudes,  it  means  a  well  dressed  man, 
who  has  nothing  to  do.  In  others,  it  means  a 
man  who  will  do  everything  that  is  immoral, 
and  then  murder  the  man  who  tells  him  of  it. 
In  all  latitudes,  it  is  consistent  with  indulgence 
in  the  grossest  vices,  and  the  most  palpable  injus- 
tice. And  well  it  may  be  ;  for  good  manners 
are  defined  to  be,  the  art  of  pleasing  our  supe- 
riors. 


3^  MEMOIR. 

/  The  subject  of  our  memoir  was  a  gentleman, 

in  the  true  sense  of  the  term.     He  was  a  gentle- 

/  man,  because  he  was  a  Christian  ;  not  because 

j    he  had  trained  himself  to  the  arts  of  pleasing,  but 

I     because  he   had  a  refined  soul  ;  not  because  he 

i     had  studied  Chesterfield,  but  because  he  had  stu- 

t     died  his  bible.     He   was  court-ious  to  all  ;  not 

more  from  respect  to  himself,  than  from  respect 

to  human  nature  in  its  lowliest  form.     What  in 

others  is  too  often  the  result  of  arbitrary  rules, 

I         was  in  him  the  spontaneous  promptings  of  a  good 

I        heart.     To  him  it  was  no  effort  to  be  kind  and 

considerate.     To   have   been    otherwise,   would 

have  cost  him  more  than  any  other  sacrifice. 

Such  were  the  traits  which  appeared,  to  the 
writer,  most  prominent  in  the  character  of  this 
most  interesting  young  man,  during  his  short 
sojourn  with  us,  on  his  return  from  the  south. 

It  was  now  May,  and  he  had  brought  the 
spring  with  him  thus  far.  It  was  deemed  expe- 
dient that  he  should  not  travel  faster  than  the 
advance  of  the  season,  or  outstrip  the  mild  breezes 
which  are  so  soothhig  to  the  irritability  of  dis- 
eased lungs.  But  it  was  a  sad  sight  to  see  the 
contrast  between  recovering  nature  and  the  in- 
valid's decline.  Every  day  there  was  a  greener 
shade  in  the  fields,  and  a  more  luxuriant  verdure 
on  the  trees  ;  but  each  day  there  was  a  deeper 


MEMOIR.  53 

paleness  on  the  check,  and  greater  feebleness  in 
the  step,  of  the  object  of  our  solicitude,  on  whom 
earth  seemed  to  be  smiling  her  last.  It  was  a 
moving  spectacle,  to  see  him,  day  after  day, 
while  the  busy  and  the  joyous  were  hurrying  on 
their  way,  buoyant  with  pleasure  or  eager  with 
hope,  attended  by  his  sister,  making  his  slow 
and  toilsome  excursions,  trembling  with  feeble- 
ness, and  inhaling  with  difficulty  the  balmiest 
airs  that  ever  breathed  from  heaven.  The  doom 
of  early  death  weighed  like  a  stone  upon  the 
heart  of  the  beholder,  and  the  thought  was  forced 
upon  the  mind,  that  before  the  leaves  which 
were  then  expanding  had  fallen,  he  himself  would 
have  been  gathered  to  the  tomb  !  He  was  to  die, 
—  in  the  very  morning  of  his  days,  one  who  was 
so  well  fitted  to  adorn  and  to  enjoy  life,  around 
whom  so  many  fond  affections  clustered,  in  whom 
so  many  hopes  were  centred.  It  was  a  mystery 
in  the  dispensations  of  Providence,  too  deep  for 
human  wisdom  to  solve  ;  and  it  sent  the  faith  of 
the  meek  inquirer  in  speechless  submission  to  the 
throne  of  '•  Him,  who  maketh  clouds  and  thick 
darkness  his  pavilion  round  about." 

As  the  weather  became  warmer,  it  was  thought 
advisable  that  he  should  pursue  his  journey 
homeward.  He  accordingly  left  the  circle  of 
friends  whose  interest  he  had  excited,  sorrowful 


64  MEMOIR, 

to  part  with  one  so  amiable,  and  sorrowful  most 
of  all  with  the  certainty  that  they  should  see  his 
face  no  more.  He  bore  the  journey  home  much 
better  than  could  have  been  expected.  His  own 
spirits  were  excited  and  exhilarated  by  the  warm 
welcome  of  his  family  and  friends,  and  he  seem- 
ed, for  a  deceitful  moment,  almost  himself  again. 
I  here  resume  the  narrative  of  his  physician. 

"  Henry  returned  to  us  on  the  19th  of  May, 
greatly  emaciated,  but  with  more  strength  than 
I  had  expected  to  find.  He  met  us  all  with 
his  usual  cheerfulness.  Surrounded  once  more 
with  all  those  so  dear,  new  life  seemed  to  be  in- 
fused into  him ;  but,  alas  !  his  case  was  totally 
hopeless  ;  a  large  portion  of  his  left  lung  was 
gone,  while  the  right  had  already  begun  to  sym- 
pathize. He  continued  to  walk  about  the  house 
and  to  ride  out  daily,  but  his  strength  gradually 
wasted.  I  very  soon  accquainted  him  with  his 
state  ;  he  expressed  himself  perfectly  resigned, 
and  again  bowed  in  entire  ''  submission  to  the 
Divine  will."  And  now  it  was,  my  dear  sir,  that 
his  character  began  to  shine  forth  in  all  its 
beauty. 

Henry's  disease,  in  many  respects,  had  been 
from  the  first  peculiar ;  you  are  aware  that  in 
consumption  the  mind  of  the  patient  is  generally 


MEMOIR.  55 

impressed  by  a  singularly  illusive  view  of  his 
own  case,  and  that  while  the  disease   is  making 
fearful  ravages,  and  the  wasting  form  shows  how 
rapidly  he  is  advancing  to  the  grave,  yet  no  argu- 
ment will  convince  him  of  the  fact ;  he  laughs 
at  the  fears  of  his  friends,  is  convinced  that  they 
are  perfectly  groundless,  and  feels  every  confi- 
dence that  a  few  days,  or  weeks  at  farthest,  will 
restore  him  to  perfect  health.     This   was  not  so 
with  our  dear  invalid.     From  the  dawn   of  his 
fatal  disease  he   knew  that  it  was  of  a  serious 
character,  and  the  first  impulse  of  his  meek  spirit, 
was  acquiescence  in  the  divine  will ;  and  this  view 
of  his  case  never  forsook  him.     Occasionally,  in- 
deed, he  did  indulge  in  hope,  but  never  so  clung 
to  life  as  to  make  him  forget  that  he   was  a  de- 
pendent being.     More  than  once  he  said  to  me, 
"  for  the  sake  of  others,  I  could  wish  my  life   to 
\)e  prolonged  ;  but  for  myself,  I  have  no  other 
wish  than  to  bow  to  the  will  of  my  Creator." 
Again,  he  was  mercifully  relieved  from  pain,  and 
that  distressing  want  of  breath,  so  frequently  an 
attendant  upon  this  disease ;  he  also  had  an  un- 
usual degree   of  strength   until  almost  the   last. 
This  we  all   felt   to  be  a  great  kindness  in  our 
Heavenly  Parent.    His  mind  also  was  clear,  not  a 
cloud  seemed  to  pass  over  it,  and  he  retained  so 
much  of  his  usual  cheerfulness,  that  his  friends 


56  MEMOIR. 

continued  around  him,  and  we  were  thus  enabled 
to  enjoy  his  society  to  the  last. 

When  he  first  returned  from  the  south,  I  had 
thought,  from  the  hitherto  slow  progress  of  his 
disease,  that  he  might  continue  with  us  through 
the  summer ;  he  so  much  enjoyed  his  morning 
rides,  and  occasionally  an  afternoon  walk,  that  I 
could  not  realize  he  was  so  soon  to  be  taken 
away.  About  the  middle  of  June,  however,  he 
rapidly  sank  ;  the  hot  weather  affected  him  great- 
ly. It  now  became  evident  that  we  were  soon  to 
see  his  face  no  more.  Of  this,  he  became  soon 
well  assured  himself,  and  began  to  set  his  house 
in  order ;  he  procured  little  mementoes  for  his 
sisters,  and  also  for  myself  and  others  of  his 
friends,  and  presented  them  to  us  with  the  ut- 
most composure  of  mind. 

During  the  whole  of  his  sickness,  his  father  or 
myself  had  been  accustomed,  at  the  close  of  the 
day,  after  his  retirement,  to  read  to  him  a  portion 
of  the  New  Testament,  succeeded  by  a  prayer. 
This  exercise  he  always  seemed  greatly  to  enjoy. 
I  would  endeavor,  my  dear  sir,  to  describe  a 
scene  that  occurred  at  the  close  of  one  of  these 
exercises.  He  desired  his  family  might  be  called 
around  him  ;  his  affectionate  heart  burst  forth  in 
all  its  glow  of  feeling  ;  he  raised  his  soul  to  heaven 
in  a  most  energetic  appeal  for  strength  to  be  given 


MEMOIK.  57 

him  in  the  approaching  conflict  with  the  king 
of  terrors,  for  a  blessing  upon  his  beloved  family, 
and  that  they  might  be  sustained  in  the  bereave- 
ment that  they  were  about  to  meet  with.  The 
season  was  one  among  many,  during  his  last  days, 
that  never  will  be  forgotten.  It  was  about  this 
period  that  I  said  to  him  one  night,  "  Henry,  1 
want  you  to  select  some  one  of  the  promises  that 
you  can  take  with  you  into  the  eternal  world." 
He  seemed  pleased  with  the  thought,  and  said  he 
would.  The  next  day  I  referred  to  the  subject. 
He  replied  immediately,  as  if  he  had  been  think- 
ing much  on  the  matter,  "  Yes !  there  is  one 
which  I  think  I  can  call  my  own  :  '  Whoso  he- 
lieveth  in  me  shall  never  die.''  "  How  beautiful ! 
and,  as  Dr.  Dewey  remarked,  "  nothing  could  be 
more  appropriate."  There  was  so  much  in  his 
last  days  to  cheer  and  comfort  us,  that  I  might 
fill  pages  with  the  various  incidents  connected 
therewith  ;  but  I  find  I  must  bring  my  remarks 
to  a  close. 

Henry  enjoyed,  continually,  the  pastoral  visits 
of  Dr.  Dewey.  They  were  always  refreshing  to 
him.  About  this  time  his  friend,  Mr.  Clapp, 
came  on  from  Savannah  :  this  was  a  new  source 
of  gratification  to  him.  It  was  on  one  Sunday 
morning  in  June,  that  Dr.  Dewey,  Mr.  Clapp 
being  also  present,  administered  to  him  the  ordi- 
5 


SB  MEMOIR. 

nance  of  baptism.  He  expressed  to  me  his  high 
satisfaction  at  the  reception  of  this  holy  rite,  and 
I  thought  he  seemed  to  say,  "  What  now  wait  I 
for  ?"  He  continued  to  take  his  meals  with  the 
family,  and  to  pass  the  day  either  sitting  in  his 
chair,  or  reclining  on  the  sofa,  until  about  ten 
days  before  his  death.  I  said  to  him  one  Satur- 
day evening,  "  Henry,  I  think  you  had  better 
not  go  down  to-morrow,  you  are  so  feeble,  and 
the  exertion  is  greater  than  you  can  bear." 
"  Yes,  doctor,"  he  replied,  "  I  would  like  to  meet 
them  all  one  Sunday  more  at  dinner."  He 
wished  me  to  be  present ;  but  I  thought  the 
hour  would  be  too  sacred  to  be  intruded  upon, 
even  by  one  so  intimate  with  them  as  was  their 
physician.  He  went  down  and  joined  them  at 
the  table  with  his  usual  cheerfulness.  It  was 
the  last  time ;  his  dear  father  bore  him  back 
again  to  his  room,  in  his  arms,  alas  !  to  return 
no  more. 

From  this  time  he  rapidly  failed  ;  he  reclined 
the  greater  part  of  the  time  on  his  bed,  his  mind 
still  unruffled.  Many  were  the  conversations  I 
had  with  him  on  the  subject  of  his  expected 
change ;  his  preparation  was  not  that  of  a  day, 
it  was  that  of  a  life  ;  and  in  a  review  of  this  life, 
his  friends  have  every  possible  consolation. 

On  the  2d  of  July,  he  appeared  sinking  all  day  ; 


MEMOin.  69 

durin?  tlie  nii^ht,  he  wished  me  to  remain  with 
him,  and  I  thought  it  probable  he  might  not  con- 
tinue until  morning ;  he,  however,  was  more 
comfortable  than  I  had  anticipated,  and  in  the 
morning  somewhat  revived.  He  continued  very 
low  during  the  day,  and  at  night  I  again  remained 
with  him  ;  he  slept  uneasily  the  early  part  of  the 
night,  and  about  1  A.  M.  he  called  me  to  his 
bedside,  and  asked  if  I  thought  [lim  dying.  I 
told  him  I  thought  not,  but  that  his  hour  of  de- 
parture was  probably  not  far  off.  I  asked  him  if 
there  was  any  thing  more  he  wished  to  commu- 
nicate ;  he  said,  no  ;  all  his  worldly  matters  were 
settled.  Again  I  begged  to  know  of  the  state  of 
his  mind  :  I  found  it  serene  ;  he  said  he  felt  hap- 
py. He  sank  again  into  a  tranquil  sleep.  About 
5  A.  M.,  again  he  told  me  he  thought  himself 
going  ;  I  found  it  to  be  so,  and  quickly  sum- 
moned the  family.  And  here,  Rev.  Sir,  opened 
a  scene  that  I  dare  not  attempt  to  describe.  To 
each  of  his  sisters  he  had  a  word  to  say,  a  sepa- 
rate farewell ;  to  his  beloved  father  ;  to  his  almost 
adored  mother,  "  Be  comforted,  dear  mother,  said 
he  ;  "  —  but  I  will  not,  I  dare  not  enter  upon  a 
description  of  this  solemn  hour.  He  again  called 
me  to  him,  and  said  much  of  kindness  and  affec- 
tion, which  my  pen  refuses  to  trace.  This  scene 
much  exhausted  him  ;  he  felt  himself  sinking 


60  MEMOIR. 

fast.  And  now,  said  he,  I  should  hke  once  more 
to  join  with  you  in  prayer.  With  whom,  I  said, 
my  dear  Henry  ?  With  my  father,  said  he,  if  he 
feels  able.  Through  the  divine  aid  his  parent 
was  enabled  to  kneel  at  the  bedside  of  his  dying 
child,  and,  with  his  family  around  him,  to  com- 
mit the  soul  of  his  dear  boy  to  that  God  who 
gave  it.  Oh  !  sir,  it  was  a  solemn  hour  !  I  have 
witnessed  many  death  beds,  but  never  any  thing 
to  equal  this.  We  all  arose  from  kneeling  around 
him,  and  stood  watching  his  dying  countenance  ; 
it  spoke  of  perfect  peace.  Soon  he  fell  asleep, 
to  awake  no  more,  until  the  trump  of  the  great 
archangel  shall  awaken  all  to  judgment.  He 
spoke  but  a  minute  or  two  before  his  breath  left 
him,  and  intimated  to  us  that  all  was  well.  There 
was  no  struggle  in  death  ;  his  countenance  soon 
assumed  that  lovely,  placid  look,  which  all  who 
knew  him  loved  to  look  upon  in  his  days  of  life 
and  health. 

He  remained  with  us  for  two  days,  as  if  asleep 
upon  his  couch.  Kind  and  sympathizing  friends 
strewed  sweet  flowers  around  him  as  he  lay  ;  the 
rose,  the  jasmine,  and  the  fragrant  lily,  emble- 
matic of  his  virtues,  his  purity  of  life  and  char- 
acter —  they  faded  away,  but  he  remained  lovely 
in  death  ;  and  then  they  bore  him  away  to  his 
place  of  sepulture.     Thus  has  passed  away,  in 


MEMOIR.  61 

the  morning  of  life,  this  interesting  young  man, 
so  full  of  promise,  so  well  fitted  to  adorn  society, 
to  benefit  his  fellow  creatures  ;  —  he  has  gone, 
but  his  name  still  lives.  May  his  extensive  cir- 
cle of  young  friends  strive  to  emulate  his  many 
virtues  ;  and  may  his  holy  example  be  held  up 
for  their  edification  ! 

These    pages.    Rev.    Sir,    have    been  written 
amid  a  press  of  professional  duties.     I  am  sensi- 
ble, that  I  have  not  done  the  subject  justice. 
With  every  sentiment  of  respect, 
I  am.  Rev.  Sir, 

Your  ob't  serv't, 

Jas.  D.  Fitch." 

A  life  so  beautiful,  a  death  so  calm  and  saintly, 
are  no  accidents,  are  not  the  results  of  a  fortunate 
temperament,  or  a  happy  coincidence  of  external 
circumstances.  Such  a  life,  and  such  a  death, 
could  be  the  result  of  nothing  short  of  religious 
principle.  This  was  the  secret  spring  which  fed 
the  roots  of  his  virtues,  and  gave  consistency, 
strength  and  symmetry  to  his  whole  character. 
His  was  no  mere  worldly  and  politic  morality. 
It  was  not  the  honor  which  cometh  from  men, 
that  he  sought.  There  was  an  eye,  that  seeth 
in  secret,  which  he  was  conscious  was  ever  upon 
him,  and  to  which  he  referred   all   his  actions. 


62  MEMOIK. 

He  seems  early  to  have  made,  and  kept  the  reso- 
lution, "  My  heart  shall  not  reproach  me,  so  long 
as  I  live."  His  nearest  friends  bear  witness  to 
his  almost  faultless  conduct.  The  natural  con- 
sequence of  such  a  life,  is  a  peaceful  and  hopeful 
death.  "If  our  hearts  condemn  us  not,  then 
have  we  confidence  towards  God."  The  filial 
spirit  ever  rises  up  in  an  obedient  heart,  and  the 
filial  spirit  is  one  of  confidence,  assurance  and 
trust. 

For  the  last  six  years  of  his  life  he  was  an 
attendant  at  the  church  of  the  Messiah,  under 
the  pastoral  care  of  Dr.  Dewey  ;  and  he  was  de- 
cidedly Unitarian  in  his  religious  opinions.  He 
had  been  educated  in  a  different  faith  ;  but  ex- 
amination and  reflection  gradually  changed  his 
views,  and  made  them  more  clear  and  definite, 
and  finally  settled  them  in  the  doctrines  respect- 
ing God  and  Christ,  and  the  work  of  salvation, 
which  have  been  entertained  by  some  of  the 
greatest  and  best  men  who  have  ever  borne  the 
Christian  name.  To  him,  at  least,  these  views 
were  sufficient ;  sufficient  to  secure  him  in  the 
paths  of  holiness,  to  maintain  warmth  and  constan- 
cy in  his  devotional  feelings,  to  sustain  him  in  every 
trial,  to  smooth  the  bed  of  sickness,  and  deprive 
death  of  its  terror  and  its  sting.  He  delighted  in 
the  study  of  the  Scriptures.     They  were  to  him 


MEMOIR. 


63 


a  perpetual  source  of  light  and  comfort.  He  was, 
for  a  long  time,  a  teacher  in  the  Sunday  school 
attached  to  the  church  of  the  Messiah  ;  and  he 
never  spared  himself  in  his  exertions  for  the  good 
of  others.  It  is  testified  of  him,  by  one  who 
knew  him  best,  "  If  there  was  any  one  trait  in 
Henry's  character  stronger  than  another,  it  seems 
to  me  that  it  was  the  great  desire  he  felt  for  the 
improvement  in  knowledge  and  virtue  of  all 
classes  of  men.  His  life  was  one  of  great  purity 
in  thought,  word  and  deed.  I  look  back  upon 
it  with  wonder  and  admiration.  I  can  see  much 
in  it  worthy  of  imitation  ;  and  nothing,  in  a  moral 
point  of  view,  that  calls  up  the  slightest  unpleas- 
ant recollection.  He  seemed  to  possess  a  soul 
ever  alive  to  virtue  and  happiness.  His  real  en- 
joyments in  life  have  been,  I  think  more  than 
those  of  most  men  who  live  to  threescore  years 
and  ten.  He  used  the  world  without  abusing 
it ;  and  consequently,  in  every  thing  he  did,  and 
in  every  situation,  he  found  true  sources  of  en- 
joyment. During  his  sickness,  his  mind  was 
tranquil  and  ever  cheerful.  He  did  not  appear 
to  have  any  slavish  fears  of  death.  His  faith 
was  unwavering,  and  sufficient  for  him  in  the 
great  trial ;  and  I  never  witnessed  such  trust, 
peaceful  composure,  and  strong  hope,  as  he  ex- 
hibited in  his  last  hours." 


64  MERtOIR. 

His  had  been  a  life,  not  only  of  duty,  but  de- 
votion. Every  day  he  read  a  portion  of  the 
Scriptures,  and  not  only  were  his  prayers  offered 
morning  and  evening,  but  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
lifting  his  thoughts  to  heaven  as  he  walked  the 
streets  or  strolled  in  the  country,  where  nature 
seemed  in  accordance  with  his  feelings.  "  When 
you  speak  of  Henry  in  the  domestic  circle,"  writes 
one  who  knew  him  at  home,  "  you  need  not  fear 
to  use  strong  language.  I  believe  the  life  he  lived 
there  was  more  perfect,  by  far,  than  that  of  any 
one  of  whom  I  have  personal  knowledge." 

How  practical  and  intelligent  was  his  faith  in 
Christ,  may  be  learned  from  a  few  Avords  which 
fell  from  him  soon  after  he  had  given  up  all  hope 
of  recovery.  "  How  very  different  is  my  case, 
from  what  it  would  have  been,  had  not  Christ 
died  and  risen  again  !  "  To  him,  it  is  evident, 
from  this  speech,  that  "Christ  had  brought  life 
and  immortality  to  light  through  the  gospel." 
And  his  faith  in  Christ  had  not  been  a  merely 
speculative  belief.  That  immortality,  which  the 
resurrection  of  Christ  made  sure,  had  shed  its  in- 
fluence over  his  whole  character.  While  his 
hands  were  engaged  in  his  earthly  duties,  his 
heart  and  his  affections  had  been  in  heaven. 

As  he  drew  near  his  end,  he  felt  desirous  of 
commemorating  that  Saviour,  on  whom  he  had 


MEMOIR.  65 

believed,  according  to  his  last  request.  .  His  hope 
was,  that  he  was  soon   to  be  united  to   the  peo- 
ple of  God  in  Heaven,  and  he  desired  to  com- 
mune with  his   visible   church  on  earth.     At  his 
desire,    that    affecting    ordinance   of  the    supper 
was  administered   to   him   by    his    pastor.     "  It 
appeared  to  give  him  much  consolation.     When 
the    ceremony    was    concluded,    he    exclaimed, 
'Now,  Lord,  what  wait  I  for?'  "    In  this  feeling 
of  strength  and  refreshment,  from  the  participa- 
tion of  the  Lord's  Supper,  his  experience  coinci- 
ded with  that   of  the   whole  Christian   church. 
By  this  is  tested  the  wisdom  of  the  whole  insti- 
tution.    It  is  thus  perceived  to  be  most  admira- 
bly adapted  to  meet  and  satisfy  the  wants  of  the 
soul.     The  soul,  approaching  the  confines  of  the 
spiritual  world,  having  bidden  adieu  to  the  things 
of  time,  desires  to    hold    communion    with  the 
Spirit   of  Him,  who  once    passed   through  the 
gloomy  portal  of  death,  and  came  back  again  to 
assure  and  comfort  his  friends   and  companions. 
It  would  sympathize  with  the  joyful  faith  of  the 
early  disciples,  when   they  ate  and  drank  with 
him  after  his   resurrection,  and   knew  that  "  it 
was  indeed  the  Lord." 

When  the  writer  of  this  has  seen  the  power 
of  this  rite  to  awaken  faith  and  hope  in  the 
bosom   of  the  dying,  he  has  ceased    to  wonder 


66  MEMOIR. 

that  ill  ignorant  ages  and  superstitious  countries, 
the  sacramental  emblems  have  been  carried 
through  the  streets  in  pompous  procession,  amidst 
kneeling  and  awe-struck  multitudes,  and  thought 
to  contain  a  divine  and  supernatural  virtue. 
That  which  brings  comfort  in  the  last  dark  and 
trying  hour,  when  all  earthly  consolation  is 
powerless  and  mortal  hope  is  jfled,  has  natural- 
ly claimed  and  enjoyed  the  veneration  of  man- 
kind. 

As  the  summer  advanced,  he  became  more  and 
more  feeble,  till  on  the  fourth  of  July,  as  has  be- 
fore been  related,  his  spirit  was  released  from  its 
wasted  tenement,  and  departed  to  that  better  land, 
"  where  the  blessed  inhabitant  shall  no  more  say, 
I  am  sick."  Though  he  was  an  only  son  and 
tenderly  beloved,  and  after  his  departure,  left  a 
wide  desolation  in  the  hearts  and  the  homes  of 
his  immediate  friends  ;  yet  such  was  the  saintli- 
ness  of  his  character,  such  his  preparation  for  a 
higher  life,  that  there  was  less  of  sadness  in  his 
death  than  there  is  in  ordinary  bereavements. 
His  presence  had  been  a  benediction,  and  now 
his  memory  was  more  precious  than  the  presence 
of  a  multitude  of  unworthy  sons.  Death,  though 
early,  had  placed  its  seal  upon  his  character,  and 
transferred  him  to  other  scenes,  before  his  soul 
had  become  sullied  by  the  corruptions  of  the 


MEMOIR.  .  67 

world.  Even  his  parents  were  willing  to  restore 
to  God  such  a  precious  gift.  The  feeling  of  be- 
reavement was  not  confined  to  his  family  circle. 
It  pervaded  the  whole  sphere  of  his  acquaint- 
ance. His  former  associates  felt  that  they  had 
lost  a  brother,  one  on  whose  friendship  and  fidel- 
ity they  might  have  counted,  and  whose  society 
they  hoped  to  enjoy  for  many  years  to  come. 

It  was  their  solicitude  to  preserve  some  me- 
morial of  the  virtues,  the  endowments  and  ac- 
quisitions of  their  departed  associate,  which  has 
called  this  memoir  into  existence.  They  wish 
to  preserve  in  their  own  minds  the  moral  image 
of  their  friend  from  oblivion  and  forgetfulness,  to 
quicken  their  own  sense  of  duty,  and  to  stimu- 
late themselves  to  higher  and  more  persevering 
endeavors.  They  would  make  known  the  story 
of  his  life  to  those  who  had  with  him  no  person- 
al acquaintance,  that  they  may  learn  what  may 
be  achieved  in  the  very  morning  of  our  earthly 
being,  that  they  may  feel  that  no  period  is  too 
early  to  attain  the  blessedness  of  "  the  pure  in 
heart,  who  shall  see  God." 

These  impressions  of  the  singular  purity  and 
elevation  of  his  character,  were  not  confined  to 
those  whose  connection  with  him  was  of  long 
standing.  Strangers  were  equally  affected  by 
the  manner  in  which  he  bore  the  inevitable  pros- 


68  MEMOIR. 

•pect  of  early  death,  the  readiness  with  which  he 
submitted  to  the  mysterious  allotment  of  his 
Heavenly  Father.  A  letter,  which  is  here  insert- 
^  ed,  from  the  Rev.  Mr.  Clapp,  of  Savannah,  af- 
/  fords  a  testimony  that  he  was  uniform  and  con- 
sistent, the  same  to  those  whom  he  revealed  all 
his  feelings,  that  he  was  to  the  most  casual  ac- 
quaintance. It  is  not  often  that  one  so  young  is 
spoken  of  with  a  commendation  so  hearty,  and 
a  respect  so  profound. 

Savannah,  March  12th,  1845. 
Dear  Sir, 

I  regret  not  having  been  able  to  reply  to  your 
favor  of  February,  at  an  earlier  day.  I  felt  at 
once  deeply  interested  in  your  commemorative 
enterprise,  the  contemplated  biography  of  your 
son  Henry.  Most  cheerfully  will  I  contribute 
my  impressions  of  his  beautiful  life,  to  the  end 
which  you  and  your  friends  have  in  view.  So 
perfect  a  character  deserves  a  record  and  a  me- 
morial. His  worth,  and  our  hearts,  wherein  he 
yet  lives,  claim  such  a  testimony.  It  will  give 
a  new  and  abiding  interest  to  his  virtues  and 
memory,  and  I  hope,  a  new  impulse  to  our  good 
endeavors. 

It  was  about  one  year  ago  that  I  first  saw  your 
son.  His  appearance,  then,  gave  me  apprehen- 
sions for  the  future.     A  few  months  confirmed 


MEMOIR.  C9 

this  truth.  Disease  had  set  upon  him  no  doubt- 
ful marks,  though,  in  common  with  yourself,  I 
cherished  the  hope,  that  our  milder  climate  might 
restore  his  health,  or  at  least  prolong  his  days. 
But,  though  for  a  time  he  appeared  to  revive  un- 
der it,  the  disease  still  held  its  way. 

He  left  Savannah  in  April.  On  the  following 
June,  on  my  arrival  in  New  York,  I  saw  him 
once  more.  He  had  greatly  changed,  and  I  felt 
how  soon  his  place  on  earth  would  be  vacant. 
Not  long  after,  perhaps  in  July,  I  saw  in  the  pa- 
pers the  announcement  of  his  death. 

My  impressions  of  Henry's  character  are  the 
same  with  those  of  his  other  and  older  friends. 
There  was  little"  ranai/ewess  in  him.  He  was 
cheerful,  calm,  mild  and  thoughtful,  and  all  these 
he  was  uniformly.  I  saw  him  only  during  his 
illness,  and  I  never  saw  him  depressed;  on  the 
contrary,  he  seemed  satisfied  ;  not  that  life  had 
lost  any  of  its  beauty  or  charms,  or  that  his  en- 
joyments of  this  world  were  not  great.  He  was 
keenly  alive  to  beautiful  things,  and  cherished  a 
trust  that  seemed  perfectly  to  sustain  him.  He 
appeared  to  live  in  his  affections  ;  and,  although 
friends  and  home  were  so  dear  and  loved,  I  heard 
from  him  no  resircts  that  he  must  leave  them  all. 
The  Father's  will  he  made  his  own  ;  and  in  his 
surrender  and  submission,  he  found  tlie  source  of 


70  MEMOIR. 

an  unfailing  happiness.  Friendship,  in  his  mind, 
had  a  meaning  not  alone  on  this  side  of  death. 
His  religion  did  not  dream  that  he  could  lose 
any  love  by  a  change  of  worlds.  Hence  he  was 
composed  and  hopeful,  when  we  were  so  cast 
down  and  disturbed.  I  saw  him  one  morning 
in  the  midst  of  you  all — a  morning  that  you 
must  all  remember,  when  he  first  spoke  freely 
and  plainly  of  his  condition,  and  the  prospect  of 
death.  We  were  sad,  and  he  was  cheerful.  It 
was  the  last  time  I  saw  him,  but  the  impression, 
which  his  character  gave  to  the  scene,  cannot  die 
from  my  memory.  Religion  had  grown  to  en- 
tire resignation.  This  occasion,  with  that  of  the 
previous  Sunday,  when  I  went  with  your  pastor, 
and  you  were  all  received  into  the  visible  church, 
are  among  the  most  deeply  impressive  of  my 
life. 

While  in  Savannah,  and  during  the  few  days 
I  afterwards  spent  in  New-York,  —  in  all  my  in- 
tercourse with  Henry,  —  I  cannot  remember  that 
I  ever  saw  him  sad.  I  could  detect  in  him  no 
sign,  appare?itlij  he  was  almost  unconscious,  that 
his  life  was  pursuing  any  other  than  the  accus- 
tomed way.  I  have  conversed  with  others  who 
knew  him  here,  especially  with  our  friend   Dr. 

A ,  and  have  found  but  one  impression  of  his 

character  ;  it  was  that  of  great  gentleness  and 


MEMOIR.  71 

purity.  He  was  the  same  to  all.  I  look  back 
to  him  now,  and  cannot  imagine  a  discontented 
word  or  murmur  to  escape  him,  —  a  single  in- 
stance would  be  so  entirely  inconsistent  with  his 
habitual  life.  The  moral  seemed  to  be,  in  him, 
peculiarly  the  ruling  power.  I  do  not  mean  that 
this  part  of  his  nature  had  developed,  by  any 
means,  disproportionately.  He  seemed  to  have 
grown  up  harmoniously.  It  is  seldom  that  we 
find  symmetry  and  completeness.  Men  are  apt 
to  have  prominent  qualities  —  they  are  religious, 
or  intellectual ;  but  how  rarely  do  we  meet  a 
man  in  whom  the  wliole  being  is  trained,  and  no 
single  feature  or  excellence  will  describe  him  ! 
My  impression  of  Henry  is,  that  he  possessed  a 
harmonious  character.  He  had  not  so  much 
strong  points,  as  strength  upon  the  whole  ;  — he 
was  well  balanced.  His  was  not  a  striking  char- 
acter—  not  one  to  attract  at  first  sight  —  he  was 
too  modest ;  but  one  that  would  win  its  way, 
and  grow  upon  you  more  and  more.  He  was  too 
mild  to  dazzle.  He  was  attractive — one  to  be 
loved.  He  reflected  the  image  of  Jesus,  and 
breathed  his  beautiful  spirit.  In  his  departure, 
we  hear  the  angel  voice  crying,  "  Blessed  are  the 
dead  who  die  in  the  Lord." 

I  have  poorly  complied  with  your  request.     I 
did  not   know  where  to  stop.     Do  write  to  me 


72  MEMOIR. 

again,  and  give  my  kindest  remembrances  to  all 
your  family. 

Yours  sincerely,  and  with  many  affectionate 
prayers,  D.  C. 

With  this  account  agrees  most  perfectly  the 
eulogy  bestowed  upon  him  by  his  own  pastor, 
shortly  after  his  decease :  "I  think  I  never  was 
acquainted  with  a  young  man,  who  seemed  more 
perfectly  to  secure  the  esteem  of  those  who  knew 
him.  His  unbounded  benevolence,  his  love 
toward  the  whole  human  race,  his  sympathy  for 
the  sorrows  and  sufferings  of  his  fellow  creatures, 
were  touching  traits  in  one  so  young  ;  and  what 
striking  evidence  of  them  did  he  give  in  that  re- 
quest to  his  father,  that  '  out  of  the  little  he  should 
leave,  a  portion  might  be  given  for  the  relief  of 
aged  and  infirm  colored  persons,  such  as  may  be 
too  old  to  provide  for  themselves.'  What  point 
of  human  need  more  demanding  attention,  more 
likely  to  be  forgotten  ?  Even  more  touching, 
if  possible,  was  that  other  bequest,  of  one  sick 
and  suffering ;  '  Dear  father,  take  this  sum,  and 
see  if  you  can  find  any  poor,  suffering  being,  sick 
and  in  prison  ;  and  if  so,  relieve  him  with  it.' 
Of  his  calm,  sweet  and  grateful  nature,  of  his 
tender  feeling  for  all  ministrations,  whether  to 
the  body's  comfort  or  the  spirit's  wants,  of  his 


MEMom.  73 

religious  thoughts  and  purposes  before  he  was 
ill,  I  myself  have  seen  many  proofs.  His  reli- 
gious feelings  were  full  at  once  of  modesty  and 
submission.  His  death  was  a  fit  and  gracious 
close  of  such  a  life." 

At  the  next  meeting  of  the  Metropolitan  Asso- 
ciation, the  following  resolutions  were  passed  ; 

Whereas  it  has  pleased  Almighty  God,  in  the 
dispensation  of  his  providence,  to  remove  from 
among  us  our  late  fellow  member  and  beloved 
friend,  Henry  A,  Ingalls,  whose  connection 
with  this  Association  dates  from  its  foundation, 
and  whose  memory  is  so  intimately  associated 
with  the  history  of  the  same  :  therefore, 

Resolved,  That  in  this  sad  bereavement,  we 
mourn  the  loss  of  one,  whose  kindness,  intelli- 
gence, knowledge,  and  experience,  endeared  him 
to  all  who  knew  him,  and  made  him  one  of  the 
brightest  ornaments  of  this  Association. 

Resolved,  That  in  his  loss,  we  not  only  lose 
one  endeared  to  all  and  every  one  of  us  by  his 
many  noble  qualities,  but  the  efficient  aid  of  his 
clear  and  comprehensive  mind,  and  active  spirit ; 
and  above  all,  we  lament  the  loss  of  the  bright 
example  of  his  ever  courteous,  kind  and  consist- 
ent conduct. 

6 


t|» 


74  MEMOIR. 

Resolved^  That  in  referring  to  the  past,  and 
retracing  the  history  of  this  Association,  we 
find  his  name  foremost  in  the  promotion  of  its 
welfare,  the  prosccntion  of  truth,  and  the  prac- 
tice of  every  Christian  and  civic  virtue  ;  and  that, 
therefore,  we  cherish  his  memory  with  feelings 
of  gratitude,  commensurate  with  his  deserts. 

Resolved,  That  we  sincerely  condole  with  the 
bereaved  relatives  of  our  late  much  loved  associ- 
ate, and  hereby  tender  to  them  the  Association's 
deep-felt  sympathies,  in  the  grief  occasioned  by 
the  demise  of  their  estimable  son  and  brother. 

Resolved,  That  a  copy  of  the  foregoing  reso- 
lutions (signed  by  the  officers  and  members  of 
this  Association)  be  transmitted  to  the  father  of  the 
deceased  ;  and  another  copy  be  entered  at  length 
with  the  minutes  of  the  Association,  as  lasting 
proofs  of  the  high  estimation  in  which  the  de- 
parted was  held  by  this  body. 

May  much  of  his  spirit  rest  upon  the  associ- 
ates he  has  left  behind  !  May  they  emulate  those 
virtues  they  knew  so  well  how  to  appreciate  in 
him !  May  they  be  prepared,  when  called  to 
follow  him,  to  meet  his  pure  spirit  in  a  better 
world  ! 


SELECTIONS 


FROM    THE 


WRITINGS 


OF 


HENRY  AUGUSTUS  INGALLS, 


SELECTIONS. 


ADDRESS, 

DELIVERED    AT    THE     FIRST     ANNIVERSARY    CELEBRATION    OF 
THE    METROPOLITAN    ASSOCIATION,    MARCH    29,   1841. 

It  has  long  been  customary  for  associationSj  hav- 
ing for  their  object  some  permanent  good,  to 
celebrate,  from  year  to  year,  the  day  on  which 
they  were  formed  into  bodies,  that  they  may  thus 
bring  before  them  a  livelier  remembrance  of  their 
first  object,  and  of  the  benefits  resulting  from  it. 
These  anniversaries  are  beneficial,  inasmuch  as  it 
is  ever  well  to  contemplate  that  which  is  good. 
At  those  periods,  the  mind  recurs  to  the  past, 
traces  its  events  and  circumstances,  and  more 
naturally  ponders  over  them,  than  at  any  other 
time  ;  for,  then  rise  up  and  present  themselves 
to  the  view,  the  various  scenes  that  have  called 
forth  the  energies  of  the  mind,  displayed  the  dis- 
position, and  drawn  testimonials  that  serve  to 
endear  us  to  our  companions  in  the  warmest  ties 
of  friendship  and  grateful  remembrance.  Thus 
is  it  that  we,  believing  the  object   of  our  associ- 


78  SELECTIONS. 

ating  together  a  good  and  important  one,  have 
assembled  here  this  evening,  to  celebrate  the  an- 
niversary of  our  formation  into  a  society  ;  to 
revive  our  recollections  of  the  events  that  form 
its  history  during  the  past  year ;  and  to  gather 
from  them  new  energies,  with  which  to  mark 
our  course  for  the  future. 

It  is  well,  I  have  said,  to   contemplate  that 
which  is  good.     What  greater  benefit  than  that 
which  tends  to  enlarge  the  conceptions  of  the 
mind,  and  cultivate    the    intellectual    faculties  ? 
The  passions  implanted  in  man  are  moderated  or 
strengthened  by  education,  which  gives  to   him 
clearer    perceptions  of  those   habits  which   are 
baneful  in  their  influence ;  sets  in  a  clearer  light 
their  pernicious  effects  ;  softens  the  asperities  of 
his  nature  ;  and  renders  virtue   only  truly  attrac- 
/    tive.     Knowledge  gives  to  him  who  possesses  it, 
I    a  superiority  over  the  uneducated,  not  to  be  ac- 
I     quired  by  any  other  quality ;  power   may  com- 
mand the  bodily  faculties,  but  can  have  little  in- 
fluence over  the  mind  ;  for  one  is  the  gift  of  men, 
the  other  an  emanation  from  the  Supreme  Being  ; 
and  to  none  .but  him  will  it  bow,  or  the  brighter 
qualities  of  that  same  emanation  will  it  reverence. 
When  we  contemplate  man's  capacities,  we 
are  filled  with  wonder  and  astonishment  at  their 
seeming  boundlessness,  and  we  cannot  but  feel 


SELECTIONS.  79 

tliat  there  are  higher  duties  imposed  upon  him  than 
those  that  merely  bid  him  gain  a  subsistence  and 
hve ;  that  there  are  social  qualities  to  be  cultiva- 
ted, moral  obligations  to  be  performed,  indepen- 
dent of  these.  Were  we  confined,  in  our  enjoy- 
ment of  life,  to  passions  strictly  sensual,  we  had 
need  to  have  been  endowed,  by  the  universal 
Creator,  with  but  comparatively  few  of  the  qua- 
lities we  now  possess,  to  be  enabled  to  enjoy  it 
to  its  full  extent ;  we  had  then,  no  need  of  the 
higher  and  holier  impulses  of  our  nature  ;  we 
had  then,  no  need  of  those  noble  sentiments, — 
those  pure  aspirations,  —  which  now  form  so 
great  a  part  of  the  character  of  man.  These 
would  have  been  of  but  little  use.  The  mind, 
then,  if  indeed  man  could  be  said  to  possess  mind, 
had  need  to  be  but  little  above  the  instinct  of  the 
brute  —  its  object  scarce  superior — to  satiate 
its  passions.  It  need  have  no  higher  range  than 
to  tell  its  possessor  when  the  storm  approached, 
bid  him  shelter  himself  from  its  beatings,  or 
winter's  piercing  cold,  without  telling  him  also, 
that  in  that  storm,  there  is  something  more  than 
the  mere  howling  of  winds,  and  the  falling  of 
rain  drops  ;  that  there  is  something  more  in  win- 
ter than  its  snows  and  chills.  His  object  would 
have  been  accomplished  in  avoiding  its  fury,  and 
further  than   that  he   need  not  go  ;  there  need 


80  SELECTIONS. 

arise  in  his  mind  no  questions  concerning  the 
cause  of  these  things  —  no  questions  to  enlighten 
his  ignorance  of  them  ;  but  he  might  well  view 
these,  and  all  that  surrounded  him,  with  a  pas- 
sive indifference,  regarding  them  as  only  the  re- 
sults of  fate  or  accident.  How  inferior  would 
have  been  our  destiny,  had  we  been  created  such 
beings  !  But  we  are  endowed  Avith  nobler  feel- 
ings, and  we  know  that  we  are  something  more 
than  flesh  and  blood,  governed  by  the  impulse  of 
the  moment ;  for  there  is  within  us  a  never-sati- 
ated longing  for  something  better ;  we  are  not 
content  to  hut  live,  glut  our  animal  appetites,  and 
die.  Thus  is  it  with  the  brute  creation ;  but 
there  is  an  ever  restless  spirit  within,  seeking  for 
something  good,  searching  for  greater  know- 
ledge ;  for  in  that  good  lies,  in  a  great  degree, 
our  happiness ;  and  shall  the  divine  spirit  which 
breathes  throughout  us  rest  content  with  an  in- 
feriority of  knowledge,  when  it  may  soar  high, 
—  when  assurance  is  given  that  it  is  kindred 
with  celestial  spirits  ? 

In  view  of  association  with  those  spirits,  do 
we  not  owe  it  to  ourselves  to  make  every  exer- 
tion to  enlighten  the  mind,  that  it  may  indeed 
be  like  them  ?  We  die  —  the  spirit  takes  its 
flight  to  another  sphere ;  and  there  shall  that 
knowledge,  which  was  unacquired  here,  be  sud- 


SELECTIONS.  81 

denly  diiFuscd,  and  all  minds,  all  intellects,  be 
made  alike  ?  Shall  he,  who  neglected  to  improve 
his  faculties  here,  there  be  made  e(iual  with  a 
Newton,  a  Franklin,  with  those  whose  lives 
were  spent  in  search  of  light  ?  We  cannot  sup- 
pose so  ;  mind  is  ever  the  same. 

"  The  end  of  life  is  but  the  beginning  of  a 
new  existence."  How  much  more  probable 
then,  that  there,  as  here,  we  shall  continue  in  the 
search  of  knowledge ;  and  he  who  has  here 
made  the  farthest  advance  in  its  attainment,  will 
there  enjoy  so  great  an  advance  in  its  heavenly 
pursuit.  Is  not  here  a  reason  for  the  utmost 
exertion  to  enlighten  the  mind  ?  We  live  not  for 
the  present,  we  study  not  for  the  present ;  for 
though 

"  Art  is  long,  yet  time  is  fleeting  ; 
And  oar  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave." 

The  future  is  before  us  ;  and  though  for  a 
short  time  the  present  may  fill  our  minds ; 
though  manhood  appears  rife  with  bright  visions  ; 
still,  the  thought  will  have  place,  there  is  a  future 
beyond  this  —  there  is  a  future  beyond  age 
—  a  future  beyond  the  grave. 

The  mind  that  is  uncultivated,  that  has  been 
unaccustomed  to  reading,  can  enjoy  but  compar- 


82  SELECTIONS. 

atively  few  of  the  real  charms  of  life  ;  for  though 
dissipation  may  so  dull  the  senses  that  they 
shall  apparently  know  no  care,  yet  its  pleasures 
are  short-lived ;  and  though  other  enjoyments 
may  divert  for  a  while,  yet  they  are  such  as  the 
mind  can  soon  be  satiated  with.  But  the  thoughts 

.  and  ideas  gained  from  study  are  pleasing  com- 
panions at  all  times  —  never  tiresome ;  for 
though  the  eye  may  grow  weary,  and  seek,  at 
times,  other  enjoyments  than  the  printed  page, 
the  impressions  gleaned  from  those  pages  are  car- 
ried with  it,  and  impart  to  every  innocent  amuse- 
ment an  additional  zest  and  charm.  Poetry,  with 
its  beautiful  and  expressive  images  ;  Philosophy, 
with  its  sublime  ideas  and  elevated  range  of 
thought ;  are  never  lost  on  him  whose  mind  has 
been  refined  by  their  study  ;  for  the  little  occur- 
rences of  life  which,  to  others,  would  be  but  as 
dull  matters  of  fact,  are,  to  such  an  one,  never- 
failing  sources  of  amusement  and  instruction. 
Perhaps,  one  of  the  most  striking  beneficial  re- 
sults of  a  liberal  education,  is  its  effects  upon  the 
/disposition.     With  enlarged  views  of  humanity, 

/  it  becomes  gentle  ;  and  benevolence  towards  all 

j   forms  the  distinguishing  mark  of  the  character. 

1  Violent  resentment,  dark  revenge,  can  find  little 
place  to  act  within  it;  but  love,  sympathy,  and 
a  noble  generosity,  are  its  beautiful  traits. 


SELECTIONS.  83 

How  many  are  there  to  whom  life  is  all  a  mys- 
tery !  who  live  and  labor,  yet  can  scarce  tell 
why  ;  who  scarce  know  any  other  purpose  of 
life,  than  life  itself  ;  to  whom  the  future  is  a  dark 
void,  with  which  they  have  but  little  to  do  ;  who 
only  know  the  present,  or  if  they  do  perchance 
think  of  the  future,  think  of  it  only  with  fear  and 
distrust,  and  soon,  unable  to  pierce  through  its 
shadowy  veil,  shrink  back  again  from  its  contem- 
plation with  dismay,  as  promising  but  little  for 
them  !  To  those  unacquainted  with  the  world's 
progress,  with  man's  high  qualities  and  powers, 
to  whom  life  is  but  a  chapter  of  accidents,  how 
drear  must  that  future  appear !  But  to  the  en- 
lightened mind,  who,  in  life's  journey,  has  one 
great  object  in  view,  to  which  all  others  are  sub- 
servient, how  different !  These  can  view  it  with 
pleasure  and  confidence,  as,  with  the  experience 
of  the  past,  giving  them  better  opportunities  of 
doing  good  and  of  perfecting  the  end  of  their 
lives.  We  live  for  some  great  purpose  :  we  can- 
not be  placed  here,  surrounded  as  we  are,  with- 
out something  having  been  designed  for  us  to 
accomplish ;  all  analogy  would  contradict  the 
supposition  ;  all  things  else  perform  their  various 
parts,  accomplish  their  respective  purposes.  And 
can  it  be  that  man  only  is  placed  here  with  all 
his  resources  at  his  command,  in   the  midst  of 


84  SELECTIONS. 

beauty,  with  no  end  for  Imn  to  accomplish  ?  It 
cannot  be  ;  and,  as  I  understand  it,  it  is  the  ob- 
ject of  all  education,  of  all  knowledge,  to  enable 
him  the  better  to  understand  and  appreciate  this 
end  of  life,  and  point  to  him  the  method  of  attain- 
ing it.  This,  one  of  the  objects  of  our  institu- 
tion, is  to  give  to  its  members  greater  opportuni- 
ties of  acquiring  that  education,  that  knowledge 
so  important. 

It  may  not,  perhaps,  be  uninteresting  to  many 
of  those  who  have  favored  us  with  their  presence 
this  evening,  to  know  something  of  our  history 
as  a  society. 

Our  association  was  established  in  March  last, 
(1840,)  by  those  whose  daily  avocations  were 
such  as  to  deprive  them  of  that  time  for  pursuing 
those  studies  which  they  deemed  necessary  to 
prepare  them  to  enter  upon  scenes,  where  it  will 
one  day  be  their  duty  to  take  an  active  part,  and 
to  enable  them  the  better  to  appreciate  and  enjoy 
the  powers  with  which  they  are  endowed  by 
the  Creator  ;  or,  in  the  language  of  the  preamble 
to  the  constitution  of  the  association,  "  the  sub- 
scribers, young  men  of  the  city  of  New- York, 
being  desirous  of  extending  their  knowledge,  and 
of  promoting  a  spirit  of  inquiry  on  useful  sub- 
jects, have,  for  this  purpose,  formed  themselves 
into  a  society,  that  they  may  thereby  the  more 


SELECTIONS.  85 

effectually  promote  this  desirable  object,  by 
means  of  essays,  debates,  or  in  whatever  other 
manner  may  be  deemed  most  beneficial."  These 
—  the  objects  of  our  association,  and  the  method 
of  attaining  them. 

Our  history  contains  no  important  or  striking 
events  for  the  general  observer  ;  we  have  sent 
forth  no  bright  stars  to  illuminate  and  astonish 
the  world  ;  but  what  light  there  was  at  first,  has 
been,  and  we  hope  may  continue,  gradually,  if 
silently,  to  increase,  till,  though  it  maj'-  not  be 
the  beacon  to  guide  the  great  mass  of  mankind, 
it  may  not  be  without  its  benefits  in  the  sphere 
within  which  it  may  be  called  to  act ;  (for  he 
who  possesses  information  may  not  confine  it 
under  a  bushel,  as  it  were,  but  it  will  become  a 
source  of  amusement  and  reflection  to  himself 
not  only,  but  to  others  with  whom  he  may  asso- 
ciate, and  to  whom  he  may  impart  it.) 

****** 

In  our  endeavors,  we  are  not  confined  to  de- 
bates and  essays,  but  those  means  are  adopted 
"  which  may  be  deemed  most  beneficial  "  to  us; 
and  we  have  therefore  adopted,  in  connection 
with  them,  readings  from  different  authors  ;  reci- 
tations, which  tend  to  promote  a  graceful  flow  of 
words,  combined  with  beauty  of  delivery,  and 
which,   being  generally  extracts  from  the  best 


86  SELECTIONS. 

poets,  and  writers  of  prose,  make  known  not  a 
few  of  their  brightest  and  best  ideas  ;  —  a  maga- 
zine also,  read  weekly,  composed  of  short  original 
essays,  by  the  members  ;  an  institution,  evidently 
most  beneficial ;  for  the  reflection  necessarily  re- 
quired to  produce  a  good  essay,  tends  to  strengthen 
and  cultivate  the  mind.     Soon,  to  these  means 
of  improvement,  will  be  added  those  afforded  by 
the  establishment  of  a  library,  which   will  not 
only  yield   instruction,  but,  also,  in  the  language 
of  those  who  first  recommended  it,  "  a  species  of 
amusement,  not  transitory,  and  affecting  the  sen- 
sual passions  for  the  moment  only,  but  lasting," 
and  which  shall  indeed  be  a  treasure  more  pre- 
cious to  the  mind  than  gold  or  silver  —  "a  well- 
spring  "  of  life  and  hope  ;  for,  when  riches  shall 
have  failed  to  charm  ;  when  sickness,  sorrow,  or 
distress,  shall  find  no  pleasure  in  them  ;  then  the 
mind  shall  dwell  with  delight  on  the  thoughts 
gained  from  those  books  ;  when  those,  thought 
friends,  neglect  and  turn  coldly  away,  these  shall 
never  refuse  their  aid  and  counsel  in  soothing 
sorrow,  affording  amusement,   or  refreshing  the 
spirits.     Though   otherwise  the  world  be  cold 
and  desolate,  the  mind  that  has  once  learned  to 
delight  in  study,  shall  never  be  lonely,  but  shall 
find  in  it  companions  that  will  afford  pure  and 
unalloyed    enjoyment.      "  We   are   born,"    says 


SELECTIONS.  87 

Locke,  in  his  '  Essay  on  the  Understanding,' 
"  with  faculties  and  powers  capable  of  almost 
any  thing  ;  such,  at  least,  as  would  carry  us  far- 
ther than  can  easily  be  imagined  ;  but  it  is  only 
the  exercise  of  those  powers  which  gives  us  skill 
and  ability  in  any  thing,  and  carries  us  towards 
perfection."  And  one  of  the  chief  benefits  of 
associations  like  ours,  is  the  better  opportunities 
they  grant  to  their  members  of  exercising  those 
powers  :  in  debates,  where  are  called  forth  both 
grace  of  action  and  force  of  thought  ;  in  essays, 
which  require  qualities  that  constitute  the  free 
and  easy  writer ;  recitations  which  strengthen 
the  memory,  and  store  the  mind  with  beautiful 
thoughts  and  images. 

What  a  sublime  subject  for  contemplation  is 
the  history  of  the  past !  How  many  strange 
scenes  does  it  present  to  us  !  As  we  trace  the 
progress  of  the  world,  we  see  nations  born,  cities 
springing  up,  empires  founded,  and  works  of  art 
built.  Time  passes  on  —  no  vestige  of  them  re- 
mains—  its    progress    has    been   one   continued 

series  of  revolutions  and  changes. 

****** 

Yet,  amid  all  the  ravages  of  time,  and  all  its 
changes,  there  is  that  which  has  ever  survived 
them,  and  to  which  they  have  been  but  as  the 
refiner's  fire,  from  which  it  has  issued  each  sue- 


88  SELECTIONS. 

ceeding  revolution,  purer  and  brighter  than  be- 
fore ;  they  have  served  fgrcibly  to  show,  that 
"  the  eternal  years  of  God  "  do  indeed  belong  to 
truth.  All  the  past  has  been  as  a  great  teacher 
of  wisdom,  developing  new  principles,  each 
generation  preparing  the  way  for  the  succeeding 
one. 

What  changes  have  been  wrought  in  our  oion 
country  !  How  different  were  its  scenes  a  few 
centuries  since !  Where  once  forests  "  reared 
their  lofty  heads  "  in  undisturbed  grandeur,  noble 
cities  now  are  seen ;  the  streams  whose  smooth 
surfaces  were  only  disturbed  by  the  ripple  of  the 
solitary  skiff  of  the  hunter,  containing,  perchance, 
the  scanty  fruits  of  a  weary  chase,  now  bear  on 
their  bosom  the  proud  vessels  of  the  white  man, 
laden  with  earth's  richest  produce ;  where  the 
ground  lay  waste,  and  the  Indian  roamed  in  igno- 
rance, whose  highest  name  was  to  be  known  as 
the  best  huntsman,  or  most  terrible  warrior,  those 
now  reside,  who  have  made  the  "  desert  to  blos- 
som as  the  rose  ;  "  who  are  spreading  abroad  the 
principles  of  light  and  science  to  all  parts  of  the 
globe  ;  and  who,  instead  of  striving  to  acquire 
the  name  of  most  mighty  in  war,  endeavor  to 
gain  that  of  most  benevolent,  and  diffuser  of  most 
happiness  among  men.  How  quickly,  and  how 
seemingly  strangely,  have  the  aborigines  of  our 


SELECTIONS.  89 

country  passed  away  !  Of  the  many  nations  wlio 
once  occupied  our  vast  extent  of  territory,  how- 
very  few  remain  !  How  many  have  entirely  dis- 
appeared from  the  face  of  the  earth  !  Can  it  be 
lamented,  that  it  is  so  ?  Though  theij  have  dis- 
appeared, the  }>laces  they  occupied  have  become 
the  theatre  for  the  achievement  of  the  "  first  great 
act  "  in  the  history  of  the  reformation  of  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  world  ;  a  part  they  could  not  have 
accomplished.  Their  position  in  the  world  was 
such,  as  scarce  exercised  any  influence  over  its 
important  aflairs  ;  scarce  capable  of  improving 
themselves,  how  could  they  carry  out  the  great 
principles  of  political  and  social  reformation  ? 
However  the  philanthropist  might  have  wished 
a  better  fate  for  them,  when  he  reflects  on  the 
great  principles  that  have  been  illustrated  and 
carried  out,  in  the  places  of  their  savage  govern- 
ment ;  principles  so  important  to  mankind,  and 
which  are  difl'using  themselves  throughout  every 
clime,  to  every  shore  ;  he  cannot  but  rejoice  that 
they  have  gone,  even  as  they  have  ;  but  joy  shall 
not  be  confined  to  a  few,  as  those  principles  pro- 
gress. Each  spot,  as  it  receives  them,  shall  take 
up  the  shout,  that  sounds  so  joyfully  in  our  own 
country,  and  nations  shall  add  their  voices,  till 
all  Europe,  Asia,  Africa,  the  extremities  of  the 
western  continent,  the  islands  of  the  ocean,  shall 
7 


90  SELECTIONS. 

join  in  one  universal  chorus,  to  attest  their  ex- 
cellence ;  and  the  names  of  Columbus,  the  pil- 
grim fathers,  Washington  and  Jefferson,  resound  ■ 
from  every  hill  and  valley  —  be  graven  on  every  1 
heart  !  Here  has  been  established,  by  their  aid  " 
and  influence,  a  government  founded  on  more 
liberal  principles  than  any  that  ever  before  ex- 
isted ;  a  government  dependent,  not  on  the  de- 
sires of  the  few,  but  on  the  will  of  the  majority. 
How  important,  then,  that  that  majority  should 
consist  of  enlightened  persons,  who  could  not 
only  know,  but  appreciate  and  maintain  their 
rights.  The  stability  of  our  institutions,  it  is  be- 
lieved, depends  on  this.  And  here  let  me  ask, 
may  not  associations  of  young  men  like  ours, 
having  for  their  object  the  diffusion  of  that  know- 
ledge, on  which  it  depends,  become  one  day,  one 
of  the  most  important  aids  in  contributing  to  that 
stability? 

Time  is  rolling  on,  and  of  what  shall  future 
history  consist?  Shall  it,  like  that  of  the  past, 
be  a  history  of  revolutions  effected  in  blood  !  Let 
us  hope  that  a  new  era  has  arrived,  and  that 
instead  of  such  recitals,  it  shall  consist  of  records 
of  the  overthrow,  —  not  of  nations,  but  of  false 
prejudices,  both  political  and  moral; — of  the 
progress  of  intellectual  improvement,  and  the 
appreciation  of  mind  throughout  the  world.     In 


SELECTIONS.  91 

this  new  era,  each  individual  person  has  his  im- 
portant part  to  perform,  for  individuals  compose 
the  mass ;  and  may  lue  hope  that,  amidst  the  va- 
rious influences  which  are  operating  together  to 
establish  it,  by  associating  ourselves  together,  the 
better  to  promote  our  "  mutual  improvement,"  * 
our  iiijluence,  however  small,  may  not  be  entirely 
lost ;  and  that,  at  some  future  period,  as  we  look 
back  upon  the  events  of  our  lives,  we  may  re- 
joice in  the  reflection,  our  part  was  not  left  un- 
done ? 

*  Motto  of  the  Association. 


92  SELECTIONS. 


ADDRE  SS, 

DELIVERED    AT    THE    THIRD    ANNIVERSARY    CELEBRATION    OF 
THE    METROPOLITAN    ASSOCIATION,    MARCH    27,    1843, 

In  one  of  the  racy  "  Letters  from  under  a 
bridge,"  the  writer,  after  decribing  to  his  friend 
the  manner  in  which  he  had  been  passing  an 
hour,  "falls  to  wondering,"  to  use  his  words, 
"  whether  the  hour  of  which  he  has  given  the 
picture,  was  a  fitting  link  in  a  wise  man's  des- 
tiny." 

"  The  day,"  he  continues,  "  was  one  to  give 
birth  to  great  resolves,  bright,  elastic,  and  genial  ; 
such  air  and  sunshine,  I  thought,  should  overtake 
one  in  some  labor  of  philanthropy,  in  some 
sacrifice  for  friend  or  country,  or  in  the  glow  of 
some  noble  composition." 

Another  cycle  is  now  finished  in  the  history  of 
the  Association  that  meets  you  here  this  evening, 
and  it  is  about  entering  upon  the  fourth  year  of 
its  existence  ;  and  at  such  a  time,  and  on  such 
an  occasion,  it  may  not,  perhaps,  be  unmeet,  that 
we  also  should,  in  a  similiar  spirit  with  the  above, 
"fall  to  wondering"  whether  the  hours  we  have 
spent  in  the  Association  have  been  fitting  links 
in  the  chain  of  life. 


SELECTIONS.  93 

The  history  of  the  Association  during  the  past 
three  years  presents  little,  it  may  be,  that  would 
appear  important  or  interesting  to  a  mere  obser- 
ver ;  true,  there  has  emanated  nothing  from  the 
Association,  which,  thundering  loud  in  its  ear, 
has  startled  the  public,  and  given,  for  a  while, 
food  to  all  the  thousand  tongues  of  rumor ;  but 
there  has  been  a  by-life,  quiet  perhaps,  far  from 
uninteresting,  or  even  unimportant,  to  those  con- 
cerned in  it. 

The  progress  of  such  societies  is  not  dissimilar 
to  that  of  individual  life.  Ardent  at  first,  sur- 
rounded by  many  friends,  warm  and  hopeful  as 
himself,  man  commences  his  career  with  pros- 
pects that  seem  to  brighten  ever  as  he  contem- 
plates them  ;  his  visions  are  gay,  illumined  by 
the  sunshine  of  the  imagination.  As  he  moves  on 
with  the  rapid  flight  of  years,  one  by  one  those 
who  started  with  him  he  sees  dropping  away, 
some  to  the  grave,  some  to  dwell  in  distant 
places  ;  as  he  nears  the  scene,  at  the  noon  of  life, 
the  view  of  which  in  the  distance  was  so 
charming,  the  exaggerations  of  the  morning  mist 
disappear,  and  only  reality  is  there  ;  not  without 
beauty,  but  less  beautiful.  The  loss  of  friends, 
and  the  absence  of  his  former  excited  imagin- 
ation;  the  formation  of  new  friendshij)S,  which 
have  but  little  of  the  warmth  of  earlier  ones,  have 


94  SELECTIONS. 

calmed  and  sobered  the  feelings,  though  the  ener- 
gies, mental  and  moral,  are  strengthened  and 
matured  in  this  struggle.  So  with  societies  — 
many  ardent  spirits  form  their  first  meetings  ;  all 
is  enthusiasm ;  months  or  perhaps  years  roll 
along,  and  as  they  pass,  faces  that  were  wont  to 
shed  an  additional  beam  of  life  and  happiness  at 
each  gathering,  are  seen  no  longer  ;  voices  that 
were  accustomed  to  sound  in  the  ear  with  plea- 
sant words,  as  they  endeavored  to  promote  the 
objects  of  their  association,  by  earnest  partici- 
pation in  its  exercises,  are  heard  no  more ;  the 
places  of  those  who  owned  them,  become  one  af- 
ter another  vacant  ;  or,  as  the  weeks  flow  on,  are 
filled  by  others,  who  again,  as  they  become  fa- 
miliar, drop  away,  some  forced  by  the  strong 
hand  of  death,  others  by  the  ordinary  changes  of 
life.  Yet,  amid  these  changes,  the  institutions, 
as  such,  become  more  firmly  settled  ;  and  though 
there  be  missed,  in  some,  the  enthusiasm  of  their 
first  meetings,  this  is  succeeded  by  the  stronger 
and  more  enduring  energies  of  greater  experience 
and  deeper  convictions. 

Onr  Association  was  formed  by  those  who,  to 
use  their  own  language,  "  were  desirous  of  extend- 
ing their  knowledge,  and  of  promoting  a  spirit 
of  inquiry  on  useful  subjects,"  by  means  of  de- 
bates, essays,  or  in  whatever  other  manner  might 


SELECTIONS.  95 

be  deemed  most  beneficial.  The  plan  of  debates 
and  essays  first  adopted  lias  since  been  adhered  to, 
varied,  at  stated  times,  with  readings  from  differ- 
ent authors,  recitations,  and  familiar  colloquial 
discussions,  in  the  place  of  formal  debates. 

Those  who  instituted  the  society  were  san- 
guine in  their  expectations  ;  they  hoped  much 
from  their  exertions  ;  those  hopes  have,  perhaps, 
been  more  than  realized  ;  they  did  not  extend, 
like  those  of  the  ambitious  politician,  over  vast 
tracts,  embracing  at  once  thousands  of  people, 
but  were  confined  more  to  the  influence  their 
meetings  might  have  over  individuals;  over  the 
character  of  those  who  would  compose  its  num- 
ber. Nor,  it  is  hoped,  did  they  over-estimate 
that  influence  ;  of  the  many  who  have  belonged, 
and  still  belong  to  it,  there  are  none,  probably, 
who  will  not  acknowledge  that  there  reached 
them  from  it,  some  good  influences. 

There  is  much  in  our  nature  that  requires  such  | 
or  similar  associations.  As  a  social  being,  man 
feels  the  want  of  some  common  object,  the  pur- 
suit of  which  will  unite  him  to  his  fellow  man  ; 
the  collected  energies  carry  each  individual  far- 
ther than  he  himself  would  have  gone  alone. 
To  most  men,  perhaps,  this  want  is  satisfied  by 
the  ordinary  business  of  life,  the  difl'erent  branches 
of  that  business  depending,  as  they  do,  upon  each 


96  SELECTIONS. 

Other,  the  prosperity  of  the  individual  on  that  of 
the  whole  ;  by  the  interest  taken  in  those  poli- 
tical questions  in  which  all  are  equally  concerned, 
or  by  their  sympathies  with  their  families,  and 
the  friendly  intercourse  of  family  with  family. 

Though  one  may,  solitary  and  alone,  pursue 
literary  studies  with  ardor,  yet,  being  solitary, 
he  is  much  more  easily  diverted  from  them  than 
he  would  be  if  incited  by  the  thought  that  there 
are  others  striving  with  him  ;  or  that  while  .  he 
studies  for  his  own  immediate,  personal  advan- 
tage, there  are  those  who,  encouraged  and  stimu- 
lated by  his  efforts,  and  beholding  his  success,  will 
be  also  benefited  by  the  results.  Thus  the  ar- 
dent are  encouraged  by  each  other's  endeavors, 
and  perhaps  excited,  also,  by  a  spirit  of  emulation, 
while  the  influence  these  exert  over  the  otherwise 
.  indilFerent,  is  not, slight;  for  few  things  strike 
I  the  mind  and  draw  admiration  sooner  than  supe- 
I  rior  mental  qualifications  ;  and  there  springs  up 
in  nearly  every  beholder,  on  witnessing  the  dis- 
play of  them,  either  regret  that  he  does  not  pos- 
sess like  powers,  or  a  strong  desire  to  possess 
them.  Sympathy  is  almost  always  strong  for 
the  cultivated  mind,  if  that  mind  has  not  been 
false  to  itself,  and  allowed  its  possessor  to  fall 
from  the  high  pedestal  on  which  he  stood. 

That  the  cultivating   the   mental  faculties  of 


SELECTIONS.  97 

a  single  person,   is  no  unimportant   thing,  few- 
will   deny;  then,  the  centering  the   energies   of 
many  to  this  object,  that   they  may  pursue  it  toj 
their  mutual  advantage,  it  must  be   admitted,  is 
still  more  desirable. 

As  sources  of  pleasure,  also,  to  those  engaged 
in  them,  such  associations  are  desirable.  The 
pleasures  resulting  from  the  pursuit  of  the  object 
which  unites  them,  are  not,  like  ordinary  ones, 
soon  exhausted,  worn  out,  but  increase  with  every 
effort;  they  grow  within  themselves;  and  suf- 
ficient to  themselves,  they  need  not  other  con- 
tinually new  extraordinary  excitements  to  pre- 
vent them  from  palling  or  satiating  the  desires. 

But  independent  of  these  pleasures,  there  are 
others  proceeding  from  mere  intellectual  associ- 
ation itself;  from  the  familiar  intercourse  of 
member  with  member,  and  the  friendships  thus 
formed.  How  many  pleasant  remembrances  are 
connected  with  the  meetings  of  those  who,  three 
years  ago  this  night,  gathered  together  for  the 
first  time  to  consult  upon  some  plan  of  action  ! 
They  were  nearly  all  strangers  to  each  other 
then  ;  but,  with  a  common  high  object  in  view, 
how  soon  friends  !  Many  of  those  are  now  separ- 
ated from  the  society,  but  pleasing  associations 
linger  around  the  memory  of  them  ;  and  they, 
doubtless,  wherever  they  wander,  sometimes  glad- 


\  . 


98  SELECTIONS. 

ly  call  to  mind  many  of  the  hours  spent  in  those 
meetings,  and  own  their  influence  was  good. 
Of  some,  tlie  memory  of  them  is  ail  that  remains  ; 
for  each  year  has  the  "  summons  come  to  one 
from  among  us,"  —  to  join 

"  Th'  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 

To  that  mysterious  reahn,  where  each  shall  take 

His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death." 

Yet  of  these  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  add, 
they  went  not 

"  Like  the  quarry  slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon  ;  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approached  the  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  coach 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams." 

But  no,  their  memory  is  not  all  that  remains  ; 
there  is  still  the  influence  of  their  words  and 
example. 

The  exact  extent  of  the  eff'ect  produced  on 
individual  character  by  associations  like  ours, 
cannot,  it  is  true,  be  calculated  ;  but  we  may  be 
able  to  trace  it  sufficiently  far,  to  ascertain,  that 
among  the  influences  which  afl"ect  the  character, 
they  hold  no  unimportant  rank. 

However  often  some  may  repeat,  that  man  is 
the  creature  of  mere  circumstances,  blown  this 
or  that  way  by  the  breath  of  every  accident,  a 
little  thought  will  show,  that  he  is  not  this  mere 


SELECTIONS.  99 

bubble,  the  sport  of  the  winds  or  waters  ;  that  his 
character,  especially,  does  not  change  with  every 
accident ;  that  there  is  in  every  soul  a  deep  prin- 
ciple, a  living  motive  power  independent  of  these  ; 
tliat  there  are  energies  pertaining  to  the  soul  as 
soul,  to  man  as  man,  which,  however  they  may 
be  modified  by  outward  things,  yet  exist  in  a 
strength,  which,  when  fully  developed  and  ex- 
erted, no  accidental  circumstances  can  wholly 
withstand  or  overthrow  —  for  no  two  persons, 
when  placed  under  the  same  external  circum- 
stances and  influences,  will  yield  the  same  results. 
Yet,  that  circumstances  do  have  a  great  modify- 
ing influence  over  the  development  of  those  en- 
ergies ;  and  indeed,  over  the  innate  qualities,  by 
which  the  character  is  formed,  cannot  be  denied. 
The  progress  of  the  soul  is  often  compared  to 
that  of  a  stream.  From  the  moment  when  it 
issues  from  the  hill  side,  it  is  hurried  forward,  as 
the  soul  to  its  final  destiny,  to  the  ocean,  where, 
with  a  thousand  others,  it  is  swallowed  up  in  its 
depths.  Its  direction  near  its  source  is  easily 
changed  ;  new  channels  may  be  cut  for  it,  or 
impediments  thrown  in  its  way,  that  may  turn 
it  hither  or  thither  ;  still,  it  must  flow  ow,  or,  if 
for  awhile  it  be  arrested  in  its  progress,  it  is  but 
that  it  may  gather  new  strength  to  break  its 
bonds,  and  flow  with  an  increased   impetuosity. 


100  SELECTIONS. 

The  farther  from  its  source  it  goes,  the  greater 
the  number  of  tributaries  it  receives  to  swell  it, 
and  hasten  it  in  its  progress  ;  the  deeper  is  the 
channel  it  cuts  for  itself,  and  the  more  difficult 
is  it  to  alter  its  course,  until,  at  last,  it  becomes 
a  mighty  stream,  defying  all  attempts  to  control 
it. 

So  with  the  progress  of  those  innate  qualities, 
mental  and  moral,  by  which  the  character  of 
man  is  formed.  At  first  weak,  they  may  be  easily 
guided;  but,  gathering  strength  with  time,  from 
within  themselves,  as  well  as  from  without,  they 
mark  at  last  their  own  course. 

The  first  influences  which  affect  the  character 
are  the  circumstances  of  early  childhood  —  the 
home  where  one  lives  —  the  place,  the  scenery 
which  surrounds  it  —  the  situation.  This  last  is 
perhaps  a  minor  influence,  yet  not  without  its 
permanent  effects.  There  is  little  in  the  narrow 
confined  streets  of  the  city,  in  its  overloaded 
atmosphere,  to  suggest  such  ideas  of  freedom  of 
spirit,  or  manliness  of  character,  as  are  encour- 
aged by  the  wide,  boundless  fields  of  nature  ; 
there  is  little  in  the  harsh,  grating  sounds  of 
paved  streets,  or  hoarse  shouts  of  angry  and  dis- 
sipated men,  which  has  that  gentle,  soothing  in- 
fluence exerted  by  almost  every  sound  that  meets 
the  ear  from  nature's  murmurs,  or  rural  occupa- 


SELECTIONS.  101 

tions.  Ill  the  city  the  eye  finds  little  of  that 
beauty  to  dwell  upon,  in  irregular  lines  of  red 
and  yellow  buildings,  dingy  and  dark  with  dust 
and  smoke,  which,  in  the  country,  is  drunk  in 
from  all  around,  —  green  meadows  and  extended 
fields,  from  forests  with  trees  of  every  hue,  or 
mountains  that,  with  softened  tints,  melt  away 
in  the  distance.  There,  the  wide  landscape,  the 
absence  of  all  petty  restraints,  the  free  air,  all 
breathe  of  freedom  and  energy  of  character  ; 
while  the  tones  from  all  around,  from  the  rippling 
stream,  the  rustling  leaves,  the  singing  bird,  the 
beauty  of  all,  the  sweet  scents  that  load  every 
breath  of  air,  —  have  a  softening  and  refining  in- 
fluence ;  they  tend  to  bring  out  the  better  feel- 
ings of  our  nature.  "  To  encourage  the  instinc- 
tive taste  of  the  young  for  the  beauty  and  sub- 
limity of  nature,"  says  Alison,  "  is  to  provide 
them,  amid  all  the  agitations  and  trials  of  society, 
with  one  gentle  and  unreproaching  friend,  whose 
voice  is  ever  in  alliance  with  goodness  and  virtue,' 
and  which,  when  once  understood,  is  able  both 
to  soothe  misfortune  and  to  reclaim  from  folly. 
It  is  to  identify  them  with  the  happiness  of  that 
nature  to  which  they  belong  ;  to  give  them  an 
interest  in  every  species  of  being  which  surrounds 
them  ;  and,  amid  the  hours  of  curiosity  and  de- 
light, to  awaken  those  latent  feelings  of  benevo- 


102  SELECTIONS. 

lence  and  of  sympathy,  from  which  all  the  moral 
or  intellectual  greatness  of  man  finally  arises.  It 
is  to  lay  the  foundation  of  an  early  and  manly 
piety,  amid  the  magnificent  system  of  material 
signs  in  which  they  reside,  to  give  them  the 
mighty  key  which  can  interpret  them,  and  to 
make  them  look  upon  the  universe  which  they 
inhabit,  not  as  the  abode  only  of  human  cares,  or 
human  joys,  but  as  the  temple  of  the  living  God, 
in  which  praise  is  due,  and  where  service  is  to  be 
performed." 

True,  bad  passions  may  linger  there,  and 
grow  in  the  heart,  but  they  find  no  sympathy  in 
nature's  beauties  ;  and  if  external  scenery  or  cir- 
cumstances could  banish  them,  they  would  be 
banished. 

But  these,  great  as  their  influence  may  be,  are 
less  important  in  the  results  than  the  home  that 
dwells  among  them  ;  no  outward  circumstances 
have  that  eff"ect  in  the  formation  of  the  character 
which  follows  from  the  teachings  of  home. 
Home  is  where  the  passions  and  tastes  first  de- 
velope  themselves,  and  there  they  receive  their 
first  direction.  If,  then,  bad  passions  are  not 
checked  or  corrected,  or  if  they  are  encouraged 
and  aided,  almost  all  other  influences  will  avail 
but  little  to  their  correction  ;  till,  at  last,  taking 
deep  root,  they  listen   to  no  voice  but  the  whis- 


SELECTIONS.  103 

perings  of  their  own  desires  and  inclinations.  On 
the  contrary,  let  the  better  impulses  of  our  nature 
be  fostered  and  cherished  by  home  associations ; 
by  its  pure,  fire-side  enjoyments,  and  friendly 
sympathies  ;  let  them  be  strengthened  by  culture, 
and  the  planting  of  deep-settled  convictions  ;  let 
them  grow  witii  time,  and  no  after  circumstances 
shall  supplant  them. 

There  are  some,  indeed,  who,  amid  the  best 
influences  of  home  and  long  continued  —  seem 
not  to  yield  to  them,  but  to  surrender  themselves 
to  passion,  and  almost  all  that  is  evil  ;  but  even 
these,  bad  as  they  sometimes  are,  under  these 
influences,  without  them  would  have  been,  prob- 
ably, still  worse.  Again,  there  are  some  who, 
amid  apparently  every  possible  combination  of 
evil,  come  from  them  pure,  and  confirmed  in 
every  good  prmciple.  These  show  that  charac- 
ter is  not  the  result  of  external  influences  alone. 

May  we  not  see  in  the  calm,  meditative  tone 
of  Bryant's  poetry,  in  the  beauty  and  truthful- 
ness of  his  descriptions  of  natural  scenery,  and 
the  tenor  of  his  reflections  over  them,  some  of  the 
influences  of  the  circumstances  of  his  early  life  ? 
In  the  gentle  spirit,  and  lofty  tone  of  thought, 
that  pervade  all  his  poetry  ;  in  the  purity  of  its 
''  moral  teachings  and  its  noble  truths  ;  have  we 
not  a  visible  evidence  of  his  sympathies  with  na- 


104  SELECTIONS. 

ture,  and  the  depth  to  which  her  feelings  sunk 
in  liis  heart,  as  well  as  the  debt  he  owes  to  those 
from  whom  his  thoughts  received  their  first 
direction ;  or,  who  strengthened  and  confirmed, 
by  their  judicious  culture,  his  high  aspirations  ? 

The  extremes  of  wealth  or  poverty  have  gen- 
erally a  modifying  influence  in  the  formation  of 
the  character — the  one  by  cramping  the  ener- 
gies in  denying  those  things  necessary  to  their 
full  development,  the  other  by  too  often  taking 
away  the  will  to  bring  them  out  in  their  full 
force  ;  though  there  are  some,  who,  stimulated, 
perhaps,  by  the  noble  example  and  wholesome 
teachings  of  a  parent,  have  permitted  neither  the 
barriers,  and  oftentimes  vicious  associations  of 
the  one,  nor  the  enfeebling  luxuries  of  the  other, 
to  hinder  the  full  expression  of  their  better  im- 
pulses. 

When  one  has  grown  up  with  every  good  prin- 
ciple strengthened  by  habit,  and  by  the  influ- 
ences of  pure  associations,  no  after  vicissitudes  of 
wealth  or  poverty,  or  separation  from  friends  or 
country,  can  destroy  the  character  thus  formed. 

The  friendships  formed  in  youth  rank  next, 
perhaps,  to  the  influences  of  home,  in  either  form- 
ing new  traits  of  character,  or  altering  or  con- 
firming those  already  springing  up. 

We  are  attached  to  our  friends,  because  we 


SELECTIONS.  105 

sympathize  with  them  ;  we  like  their  habits,  their 
principles  of  action;  and,  liking  these,  we  natu- 
rally copy  them,  and  incorporate  their  sentiments 
with  our  own.  Our  amusements  are  not  solitary 
ones  ;  but  as  we  are  social  beings,  our  greatest 
pleasures  are  those  afibrded  by  a  familiar  inter- 
course with  our  friends  :  and  the  tastes  and  sen- 
timents acquired  from  this  intercourse,  have  either 
a  refining  and  elevating  tendency,  or  an  influence 
of  the  reverse  character. 

Literary  associations,  like  our  own,  combine 
several  influences.  The  friendships  formed  in 
them,  are  often  of  a  most  pleasing  nature  ;  for, 
as  the  object  for  which  they  are  formed,  the 
"  mutual  improvement  "  of  their  members,  is  a 
high  one,  it  is  not  calculated  to  bring  together 
for  any  length  of  time,  at  least,  the  vicious  or 
low  inclined  ;  while  the  pursuit  of  that  object  in 
increasing  the  store  of  knowledge,  in  constantly 
providing  new  and  pure  sources  of  pleasure,  and 
thus  purifying  the  tastes  and  giving  a  relish  for 
those  quiet  enjoyments  which  form  one  of  the 
chief  charms  of  home,  in  bringing  continually  be- 
fore one,  for  study  and  contemplation,  elevated 
standards  of  conduct  or  action,  cannot  but  have 
an  ennobling  tendency  in  the  formation  of  the 
character. 

We  have  thus  considered,  briefly  indeed,  some 
S 


106  SELECTIONS. 

of  the  influences  that  enter  into  the  formation  of 
the  character,  and  among  them  the  tendency  of 
the  influences  exerted  by  literary  associations. 
If  it  has  been  seen  that  those  influences  are  good, 
and  that  they  have  an  elevating  tendency,  then 
we  may  resolve  the  doubt  or  wonder,  with  which 
we  commenced,  by  concluding  that  the  hours 
which  we  have  spent  in  such  an  association  have 
not  been  "  unfit  links  "  in  the  chain  of  life. 


SELECTIONS.  107 


PHILOSOPHY  VERSUS  POETRY. 

Are  the  pursuits  of  the  philosopher  more  ele- 
vated thau  those  of  the  poet  ? 

Mauy  deliuitious  have  been  given  of  the  terra 
Philosophy,  but  they  all  tend  to  this  one,  deep 
knowledge.  The  pursuit  of  the  philosopher  is 
truth,  and  the  objects  that  engross  his  attention 
in  this  pursuit  are,  God,  Nature,  and  Man.  Of 
the  first,  than  the  contemplation  of  the  attributes 
of  that  being  from  whom  all  life  and  energy  flow 
—  from  whom  we  derive  all  those  powers  that 
elevate  the  man  above  the  brute — who  has  spread 
around  and  invested  with  a  sacred  charm,  all  that 
is  beautiful  and  noble  —  what  can  be  more  ele- 
vating ?  That  can  only  be  elevating  which  tends 
to  raise  the  mind  and  give  to  it  purity,  and  dig- 
nify the  character ;  and  what  more  so  than  this  ? 
As  the  infinite  Being  is  only  studied  with  pure 
and  high  thoughts,  so  they  fill  the  mind  as  it 
contemplates  his  handiwork  in  the  beauties  of 
nature.  She  presents  a  scene  to  the  philosopher 
that  can  only  be  understood  by  him  who  has 
been  habituated  to  elevated  thoughts.  The  feast 
of  pleasure  he  enjoys  in  gazing  on  nature's  beau- 


108  SELECTIONS. 

ties,  is  greater  far  than  epicurean  ever  experi- 
enced ;  one  that  does  not  pander  to  the  baser 
appetite,  but  engages  all  the  nobler  powers  of  the 
soul — all  the  sublimer  attributes  of  the  mind. 
He  looks  on  them  with  a  cold  indifierence,  merely 
that  he  may  learn  how  best  to  express  their  col- 
ors ;  but,  penetrating  deeper  than  the  mere  sur- 
face he  gazes  upon,  finds  food  for  contemplation 
which  he  only  can  taste.  As  he  gazes  on  the 
works  of  nature,  he  is  at  once  struck  with  their 
magnificence,  their  beauty  and  order,  and  in  them 
sees  at  a  glance,  the  character  and  nature  of  their 
Creator.  Could  a  being  that  was  not  in  the  high- 
1  est  degree  pure  and  holy,  be  the  architect  of  this 
f  beautiful  world  ?  Could  it  be  possible,  that  as 
he  views  the  bright  flowers  that  deck  its  plains 
and  valleys,  and  the  beauty  of  its  verdure,  that 
in  them  he  could  see  any  other  than  the  power 
of  one  who  was  virtue's  and  purity's  self?  Could 
it  be  possible,  that  as  he  views  the  brilliant  orbs 
that  shine  so  bright  in  the  heavens  above  us,  as 
he  traces  their  various  paths  and  courses,  wander- 
ing on  with  the  utmost  regularity  and  order,  and 
asks  himself  why  these  things  are  so,  that  his 
mind  could  revert  to  any  other  than  God  himself? 
He  considers  that  the  same  grand  Being  who 
made  thefii,  and  guides  them  in  their  eternal 
courses,  also  controls  the  destinies  of  those  beings 


SELECTIONS.  109 

who  inhabit  them  ;  and  as  he  reflects,  that  in 
those  works  nothing  but  harmony  and  purity  are 
to  be  found,  he  inevitably  draws  thence  a  grand 
lesson,  teaching  that,  as  in  all  his  other  works 
they  are  prominent,  so  should  they  be  the  char- 
acteristic traits  of  man  as  well  as  nature.  As 
the  philosopher  thus  reflects,  they  become  his 
distinguishing  marks,  and  a  noble  dignity  per- 
vades his  character.  Is  there  nothing  elevating 
in  this  ?  What  can  be  more  elevating  than  that 
which,  in  every  precept,  inculcates  a  lesson  tend- 
ing to  render  the  character  dignified,  and  inspire 
the  mind  with  noble  sentiments  ?  But  not  only 
are  these  the  philosopher's  study :  truth  is  his 
object,  whether  as  developed  in  nature  or  man ; 
and  whether  he  looks  for  it  in  the  starry  heavens, 
or  in  the  passions  that  sway  humanity,  still  is  it 
the  same  ;  still  has  it  the  same  effect.  The  na- 
ture of  man  —  the  intimate,  ^'■et  wonderful,  con- 
nection of  mind  and  matter  —  the  manner  in 
which  love,  hatred,  fear,  hope,  and  the  various 
other  passions  influence  us — arc  his  careful 
study  :  and  what  nobler  or  more  sublime  study 
can  be  found  on  earth  ?  In  the  pursuit  of  an  ob- 
ject, those  means  are  invariably  adopted  for  its 
accomplishment,  that  agree  in  their  tendency 
with  the  nature  of  the  things  pursued  ;  so  is  it 
with   the  object  of  the  philosopher's  pursuit-— 


110  SELECTIONS. 

truth.  As  he  seeks  it^  it  tinges  all  his  actions, 
and  his  soul  and  mind  acquire  that  elevated  cast 
only  to  be  attained  in  its  knowledge.  I  do  not 
wish  to  detract  from  the  merits  of  the  poet ;  he 
may  have  some  noble,  some  elevating  points  in 
his  productions,  but  still  they  do  not  affect  us, 
as  do  the  reflections  of  the  philosopher  ;  they  do 
not  inspire  us  with  such  elevating  sentiments,  for 
this  is  not  the  prime  object  of  the  poet ;  his  ob- 
ject is  to  please  ;  and  as  this  is  his  object,  says 
Dr.  Blair,  "it  is  to  the  imagination  and  the  pas- 
sions that  he  addresses  himself."  What  are  the 
feelings  with  which  we  generally  read  poetry  ? 
Do  we  read  it  to  gain  elevating  ideas,  nobler  con- 
ceptions of  humanity,  or  that  the  mere  fancy  may 
be  pleased  ?  When  we  study  a  piece  of  poetry, 
do  we  feel,  on  arising  from  such  study,  as  though 
our  ideas  were  more  elevated  than  before, — as 
though  there  were  that  within  us  which  partook 
not  of  the  nature  of  earth,  but  belonged  to  an 
higher  and  nobler  region  ?  How  rarely  is  it  that 
such  thoughts  of  the  nature  of  the  mind,  or  les- 
sons that  all  things  teach,  are  diffused  by  the 
reading  of  poetry  !  On  the  contrary,  there  is 
diffused  throughout  the  reader,  a  feeling  of  lassi- 
tude and  languor,  little  favorable  to  elevating 
ideas.  But  what  are  the  feelings  with  which  we 
pursue  the   study  of  philosophy,  of  which,  and 


SELECTIONS.  Ill 

of  Newton,  the  poet  has  used  the  following  lan- 
guage : 

"  Philosophy,  baptized 
In  the  pure  font  of  eternal  love, 
Has  eyes  indeed  ;  and,  viewing  all  she  sees 
As  meant  to  indicate  a  God  to  man, 
Gives  Him  his  praise,  and  forfeits  not  her  own. 
Learning  has  borne  such  fruit  in  other  days 
On  all  her  branches  ;  piety  has  found 
Friends  in  the  friends  of  science  ;  and  true  prayer 
Has  flowed  from  lips  wet  with  Castalian  dews. 
Such  was  thy  wisdom,  Newton,  child-like  sage. 
Sagacious  reader  of  the  works  of  God, 
And  in  his  word  sagacious.     Such,  too,  thine, 
Milton,  whose  genius  had  angelic  wings. 
And  fed  on  manna." 

To  the  poet  we  go  to  obtain  relief  from  the 
weary  hour,  in  harmonious  numbers,  and  mea- 
sured cadences,  — a  momentary  and  short-lived 
pleasure.  But  the  natural  feeling  with  which 
we  go  to  the  philosopher,  is  to  obtain  those  ideas 
which  shall  elevate  us  in  the  scale  of  humanity. 
Why  do  we  pursue  these  different  studies  with 
these  different  feelings,  without  it  is  in  the  very 
nature  of  the  one  to  give  us  those  elevated  and 
noble  sentiments,  and  of  the  other,  (the  greater 
part  of  which  consists  of  pleasing  fantasies  of  the 
imagination,)  to  give  mere  passive  pleasure,  —  a 
pleasure  as  well  satisfied,  in  very  many  cases, 
by  immoral  recitals,  as  by  higher  themes  ?    Who 


112  SELECTIONS, 

would  think  of  sending  the  inquirer  for  instruc- 
tion in  noble  sentiments  and  elevating  ideas,  to 
Byron,  rather  than  Abercrombie,  who,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  another,  "  has  exhibited  philosophy  as 
the  handmaid  of  religion,"  that  from  which  are 
derived  all  elevating  principles,  "  and  has  made  it 
manifest  that  all  the  rays  of  knowledge  naturally 
converge  to  that  one  point  in  which  is  situated 
the  throne  of  eternal  and  heavenly  truth  ?  But 
what,  in  fact,  is  the  poet's  province  ?  Has  he 
any  real  province  ?  "  The  highest  state  of  man," 
says  the  philosopher,  "consists  in  his  purity  as  a 
moral  being."  (Abercrombie.)  Is  this  the  style 
of  the  poet's  teaching  ?  Is  this  his  aim  to  show  ? 
Is  this  the  conclusion  one  would  come  to  in 
studying  poetry  ?  He  allows  the  muse  at  one 
time  to  sing  of  that  which  comes  within  the 
bounds  of  morality,  and  at  another,  to  wander 
far  from  them.  Now,  her  words  flow  smooth 
with  the  tender  language  of  love,  and  anon  launch 
out  into  the  most  bitter  invectives  of  hate  and 
jealous  rage.  The  muse  scorns  not  to  tamper 
with  the  lowest  passions,  or  treat  lightly  the 
noblest  powers  of  the  soul.  The  poet  has  not, 
like  the  philosopher,  one  grand  point,  one  high 
aim,  towards  which  steadily  to  direct  his  ener- 
gies, but  his  song  varies  with  the  passions  of  the 
moment.     And  can  it   be  doubted  which  is  the 


SELECTIONS.  113 

more  elevating,  that  which  adopts  one  steady 
course,  tlie  knowledge  of  truth,  the  end  of  all 
knowledge,  or  that  which  is  capricious,  wander- 
ing here  and  there  without  object  ?  Poetry  does 
not  contain  all  that  is  beautiful  and  sublime  ;  for, 
have  Homer  and  Milton  given  us  magnificent 
descriptions  of  the  creations  of  their  fancy  ?  — 
Newton,  from  the  simple  circumstance  of  the 
falling  of  an  apple,  brought  to  our  knowledge 
truths  sublimer  and  nobler  far  than  the  highest 
imaginations  of  the  poet  !  Call  you  the  unnat- 
ural creations  of  the  poet's  active  brain  sublime  ? 
—  Where,  in  all  the  range  of  poetry,  will  you 
find  that  which  shall  compete  in  grandeur  and 
sublimity,  with  Franklin's  idea  of  drawing  the 
lightnings  from  the  heavens,  and  making  them 
conducive  to  the  happiness  of  mankind  ?  Have 
Thomson  and  others  given  us  beautiful  descrip- 
tions of  the  scenery  of  nature  ?  —  It  is  but  one 
branch  of  the  philosopher's  province  to  study  her 
works,  and,  penetrating  her  mysteries,  and  giv- 
ing us  new  and  more  extended  conceptions  of 
Him  who  was  her  creator,  lead  the  mind  from 
"  nature  up  to  nature's  God."  Has  the  poet 
drawn  vivid  descriptions  of  humanity  and  its 
frailties  ?  — Has  ho  depicted  in  lively  colors  its 
dark  passions?  —  It  is  for  the  philosopher  to 
study  them,  and  give  us  such  views  of  them  as, 


114  SELECTIONS. 

instead  of  rendering  them  attractive,  shall  drive 
them  from  the  bosom,  and  diffuse  in  their  place 
sentnnents  of  a  higher  cast,  causing  man  to  shun 
that  which  is  base  and  low,  and  delight  only  in 
that  which  is  pure,  and  indeed  noble  and  ele- 
vating. 

Which  has  conferred  the  greater  benefit  on 
the  world,  philosophy  or  poetry  ?  With  which 
wonld  we  be  most  willing  to  dispense  ?  We 
would  surely  be  unwilling  to  dispense  with  the 
more  elevating  —  we  would  not  desert  the  nobler 
for  the  baser ;  and  yet,  who  would  banish  phi- 
losophy from  our  books,  were  we  obliged  to  choose 
between  them,  and  substitute  in  its  place  poetry 
alone  ?  Which  has  most  contributed  to  advance 
society  to  its  present  elevated  state  ?  Those 
studies  are  surely  the  more  elevating  which  en- 
large the  capacities  of  the  mind  —  "  all  that,"  in 
the  language  of  Dick,  "tend  to  raise  our  minds 
to  the  Supreme  Ruler  of  all  worlds ;  to  expand 
our  views  of  his  infinite  knowledge  and  wisdom  ; 
to  excite  our  gratitude  and  our  admiration  of  his 
beneficent  designs  ;  give  us  grander  views  of  all 
that  is  great  and  good ;  of  all  that  is  beautiful 
and  noble,  which  appears  in  all  his  arrangements. 
Were  it  not  for  natural  philosophy,  the  various 
phenomena  of  nature,  which  we  now  view  with 
delight  and  interest,  and  from  the  study  of  which 


SELECTIONS.  .       115 

such  pleasure  is  derived,  would  become  objects 
of  terror  and  gross  superstition,  while  they  are 
now  viewed  in  the  light  of  evidences  of  wisdom  ; 
and  when  we  study  them,  familiar  with  the  re- 
searches of  the  philosopher,  we  rise  above  the 
lower  and  baser  feelings,  and  the  heart  is  filled 
with  high  and  pure  aspirations.  Were  it  not  for 
the  researches  in  moral  philosophy,  who  could 
paint  the  scenes  with  which  the  earth  would  be 
filled  ?  All  the  better  feelings  would  be  lost 
amid  the  universal  wreck  of  mind,  and  we,  in- 
stead of  being  the  elevated  beings  we  now  are, 
would  be  but  fit  companions  of  those  savages, 
into  whose  minds  the  light  of  science  has  never 
penetrated.  Where  would  be  the  sublimity  of 
poetry,  what  noble  parts  would  it  contain,  were 
it  not  for  philosophy  ?  The  few  sublime  rays  it 
does  contain,  are  like  the  fragments  of  the  dia- 
mond, which,  though  pretty  in  themselves,  yet 
lack  the  beauty  of  the  gem  itself,  unbroken  and  un- 
soiled.  The  poet  may  aptly  be  compared  to  the 
philosopher,  as  the  shadow  to  the  man.  The 
shadow  gives  a  faint  outline  of  man  —  so  is  it 
with  the  poet ;  in  the  meditations  of  his  muse 
he  gives  an  inkling  of  philosophy,  touches  the 
surface,  but  the  vastness,  the  grandeur  of  the 
original  is  wanting. 


116       •  SELECTIONS. 

The  gentleman  has  labored  hard,  but,  it  ap- 
pears to  me,  in  a  very  unsatisfactory  manner,  to 
show  that  the  pursuits  of  the  poet  are  more  ele- 
vated than  those  of  the  philosopher  ;  for  the 
reason,  that  poetry  has  diffused  throughout  the 
world  more  happiness  than  philosophy.  On  this 
he  has  rested  his  main  argument,  which,  it  will 
readily  be  seen,  is  not  a  very  strong  one.  On 
what  does  our  happiness  here  depend  ?  On  our 
relations  to  society,  on  the  comforts  we  enjoy, 
and  the  condition  of  the  mind  itself.  "  One  of 
the  subordinate  uses  of  natural  philosophy,"  says 
Dick,  "  is  to  enable  us  to  construct  all  those 
mechanical  engines  that  facilitate  human  labor, 
increase  the  comforts  of  mankind,  and  tend  to 
enlarge  our  views  of  the  operations  of  nature." 
There  we  see  it  the  chief  instrument  of  our  hap- 
piness. "A  still  higher  use  to  which  it  is  sub- 
servient," he  continues,  "  is  to  demonstrate  the 
wisdom  and  intelligence  of  the  Great  First  Cause 
of  all  things  ;  to  enlarge  our  conceptions  of  the 
admirable  contrivance  and  design  which  appear 
in  the  different  departments  of  universal  nature. 
In  this  view,  it  may  be  considered  as  forming  a 
branch  of  natuj^al  theology^  or,  in  other  words,  a 
branch  of  the  religion  of  angels,  and  of  all  other 
holy  intelligences  J''  The  science  of  natural  phi- 
losophy, of  which  mechanics  is  but  a  branch,  has 


SELECTIONS.  117 

enabled  man  to  accomplish  operations,  far  beyond 
the  limits  of  his  own  physical  powers.  Without 
a  knowledge  of  this  science,  the  enjoyments'  of 
man,  and  consequently,  his  happiness  as  a  social 
being,  would  be  extremely  Hmited.  "  In  the 
savage  state,  ignorant  of  agriculture,  manufac- 
tures, and  navigation,  and  the  other  arts  that  de- 
pend upon  this  science,  he  is  exposed,  without 
shelter  from  the  inclemencies  of  the  seasons  ;  he 
is  unable  to  transport  himself  beyond  oceans,  and 
visit  other  climes  and  tribes  of  his  fellow  men." 
He  exists  in  the  desert,  comfortless  and  miim- 
proved  ;  the  fertile  soil,  over  which  he  roams,  is 
covered  with  thorns,  briars,  and  thickets,  for  the 
haunts  of  beasts  of  prey.  His  enjoyments  are 
little  superior  to  those  of  the  beasts,  while  he  is 
much  their  inferior  in  point  of  agility  and  phy- 
sical strength.  But,  when  philosophy  has  de- 
monstrated the  principles  of  mechanics,  and  in- 
troduced the  practice  of  the  useful  arts,  "  the 
wilderness  and  the  solitary  places  are  made  glad, 
and  the  desert  rejoices  and  blossoms  as  the  rose  ;" 
cities  are  built,  and  the  comforts  of  life  are  ra- 
pidly spread  around;  and  "man  advances  with 
pleasure  and  improvement,  to  the  scene  of  his 
high  destination."  The  philosopher  penetrates 
deeper  and  farther  than  the  poet ;  and  conse- 
quently, has  greater  sources  from  which  to  derive 


118  SELECTIONS. 

those  sentiments  that  dignify  and  elevate  the 
man.  The  philosopher,  or  "  the  man  who  takes 
an  lenlightened  view  of  all  the  works  and  dispen- 
sations of  God,  and  of  all  the  circumstances  and 
relations  of  subordinate  beings,  necessarily  ac- 
quires a  nobleness  and  liberality  of  mind,  and  an 
accuracy  in  judging  of  things  human  and  divine, 
which  no  other  person  can  possess."  The  very 
nature  of  the  philosopher's  pursuit,  being  more 
extended,  and  including  the  noblest  of  creations, 
enables  him  to  acquire  grander  views,  and  more 
elevated  ideas  ;  from  the  very  fact,  that  his  know- 
ledge is  more  extensive.  The  poet  does  not 
search  deeply  into  natural  history,  into  the  nature 
of  man,  or  any  other  branch  of  knowledge  ;  his 
purpose  can  be  accomplished  without  so  doing. 
He,  like  the  humming  bird,  skips  from  flower  to 
flower,  culling  the  sweets  that  lie  on  the  sur- 
face ;  but,  the  richer  food,  that  lies  hidden  be- 
neath, escapes  untouched  by  him.  But  the  phi- 
losopher not  only  enjoys  the  external  beauties  ; 
for  him  also  is  reserved  the  deeper  treasures  es- 
caped unheeded  by  the  poet.  While  the  form  of 
man,  and  his  animal  powers,  apparent  to  the  eye, 
and  the  visible  efi!"ects  of  the  mind,  engross  the  at- 
tention of  the  poet ;  not  only  these,  but  the  nature 
of  that  mind,  the  breath  of  life,  and  his  construc- 
tion, so  wonderful,  are  the  philosopher's  study. 


SELECTIONS.  119 

That,  undoubtedly,  which   is  wonderful,  grand, 
noble,  beautiful,  has   the   tendency  to   excite   in 
the  mind  high  thoughts  and  noble  ideas.     Then, 
how  elevating,   how   noble   the  study  of  man  ! 
The  study  of  that  being,  who   was   made  but  a 
little   lower  than  the   angels  !     The  study,   not 
only  of  his  mental  powers,  but  their  adaptation  to 
the   matter  that    constitutes  his    figure  !     What 
object    calculated    to    induce    higher    strains    of 
thought,  than  that  delicate   piece  of  mechanism, 
the  eye  ?     Man  cannot  so  much   as   form  one   of 
the  least  of  the  particles  of  which  it  is  construct- 
ed; how   much  less  impart  to   it   the   light  that    | 
conveys  the  glance  of  love  and  friendship  !     Or,     ^ 
Avhat  higher  contemplation,   than  the   immense 
systems  of  the  universe,  as  revealed  to  us  by  the 
philosopher  ?     It  is  such  as  these  form  his  study, 
where,  at  every  step,  are  revealed   evidences  of 
wisdom.     While  we  may  read  the   brighest  ef-     i 
fusions  of  the  poet  with  comparative  indifference.,      > 
and  no  emotion,  we  cannot  contemplate  the  vast, 
boundless  field  of  the  philosopher,  understand-       5 
ingly,  without   feelings  of  the   utmost   awe  and 
veneration. 

He  has  laid  great  stress  upon,  and  endeavored 
to  show,  that  poetry  is  equally  as  elevating  as 
philosophy,  from  the  reason,  as  he  gives  it,  that 
poetry  is  so  intermingled  with  philosophy,  that 


120  SELECTIONS. 

there  is  no  separating  them  ;  claiming  that  poetry 
derives  its  charm  from  philosophy,  thus  grant- 
ing at  once  the  superior  elevation  of  the  pursuit 
of  philosophy.  He  seems  to  have  regarded  only 
a  few  specimens  of  poetry,  or  he  would  have 
found  that  those  who  derive  a  dignity  and  eleva- 
tion from  philosophy,  form  but  a  small  speck 
in  comparison  with  the  vast  sea  of  nonsensical 
rhyming  that  is  floating  throughout  the  world. 
If  the  philosophy  contained  in  Pope's  Essay  on 
Man,  gives  to  it  such  a  charm  ;  if  that  small  par- 
ticle is  so  beautiful  to  the  contemplative  reader, 
how  would  he  be  filled  with  admiration,  could 
he  explore  the  vast  field  existing  independent  of 
that  !  What  were  society  without  philosophy  ? 
We  can  only  picture  to  ourselves  the  miserable, 
degraded  state  in  which  it  would  be,  by  looking 
at  those  nations  where  it  scarcely  exists. 

In  the  savage  life  there  exists,  comparatively, 
no  philosophy  ;  while  it  is  well  known  that  the 
language  of  the  Indians  of  our  own  country,  and 
of  other  countries,  is  highly  poetic — and  how 
miserable  are  they  !  Living  for  centuries  in  the 
same  ignorant  and  brutal  condition,  making  no 
progress  towards  civilization  —  how  was  it  in  the 
dark  ages,  when  nearly  all  philosophy  was  buried 
beneath  the  mass  of  barbarism  and  ignorance  ? 
In  what  a  degraded   state  was  all   Europe  then  ! 


SELECTIONS.  121 

Little  advance  was  made  in  refinement.  Men 
were  governed  by  the  most  barbarous  laws  and 
absurd  customs;  tyranny  reigned  triumphant ;  and 
so  degraded  had  the  people  become,  from  their 
state,  when  Grecian  and  Roman  science  reigned 
throughout  the  vast  extent  of  Rome's  empire, 
that  they  were  nearly  all  in  a  state  of  slavery  and 
feudal  bondage.  But  when  the  genius  of  Bacon 
lifted  the  veil  that  had  hitherto  enveloped  philos- 
ophy in  its  dark  folds,  when  knowledge  diffused 
abroad  its  vivifying  and  ennobling  rays,  how  rapid 
the  advance  of  man,  from  a  state  of  almost  bru- 
tal ignorance,  to  dignity  and  nobleness!  Science 
advanced  with  rapid  strides  ;  man  knew  and  felt 
his  worth,  and  dared  to  break  the  chains  that 
made  him  slave,  and  assert  his  freedom,  without 
which,  alas  for  his  dignity  ! 

And  now,  since  the  prmciples  of  philosophy 
have  been  demonstrated  and  carried  out  in  all  the 
arts  and  sciences  of  life,  how  bright  a  contrast 
does  society  present,  to  its  state  in  those  dark 
ages  !  Admitting  that  music  and  oratory  are  de- 
rived from  poetry,  still  I  conceive  that  he  is  no 
farther  advanced  in  his  argument  than  before  ; 
for  music  not  only  "  has  charms  to  soothe  the 
savage  breast,"  but  it  is  also  a  powerful  instru- 
ment of  the  excited  passions  ;  and  he  will  use  it 
to  the  best  advantage,  whose  mind,  tempered  by 
9 


122  SELECTIONS. 

philosophy,  can  discern  its  nature,  and  employ- 
it  to  bring  about  good  and  benevolent  effects. 
So  also  is  it  with  the  orator  ;  the  words  he  utters 
are  but  the  result  of  passion,  as  it  has  been 
directed  or  calmed  by  the  influence  of  study  ; 
and  he  is  liable,  if  his  energies  are  not  directed 
aright  by  the  gentle  influence  of  reason,  to  pour 
forth  those  strains  that  shall  stir  up  the  lower 
feelings  of  the  soul,  and  call  its  base  passions  into 
action,  as  to  give  utterance  to  those  sentiments 
that  shall  elevate  the  mind.  He  has,  throughout 
his  argument,  considered  the  passions  as  the  off- 
spring of  music  and  oratory,  forgetting  the  while, 
that  such  is  not  the  case.  They  are  but  instru- 
merits  of  the  passions ;  powerful  instruments, 
perhaps,  for  good  or  bad,  as  they  are  directed 
by  those  whose  minds  are  elevated  or  debased. 


i 


SELECTIONS.  123 


ANCIENT  VERSUS  MODERN  LAWS. 

Our  modern  laws  and  customs,  conceived  in 
truth  and  wisdom,  are  much  more  conducive  to 
public  happiness  than  ancient  laws  founded  in 
superstition,  and  based  upon  the  worst  passions 
of  humanity.  The  laws  and  customs  of  a  people 
form  their  government  :  and  as  their  government 
is  good  or  bad,  so  will  peace  and  happiness  be 
diffused  throughout  them.  They  are  instituted 
to  preserve  the  peace  and  just  rights  of  the  citi- 
zen ;  therefore,  where  the  laws  are  good  and 
properly  administered,  we  may  reasonably  expect 
to  see  happy  results  flow  from  them.  But  the 
laws  and  customs  of  the  ancients  were  such  as 
insured  to  them  no  peace  ;  on  the  contrary,  they 
continually  involved  them  in  war,  in  which  it 
was  their  whole  object  to  make  the  people  well 
versed.  To  this  point  all  their  customs  tended. 
Such  was  the  object  of  the  laws  of  the  oft-praised 
Lycurgus.  There  is  no  calamity  to  be  dreaded 
by  a  nation  so  much  as  that  of  war.  It  not  only 
retards  the  progress  of  national  prosperity,  but  it 
causes  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  a 
country  the  sorrow  of  broken  hearts,  leaving  deso- 


124  SELECTIONS. 

late  the  homes,  the  firesides  of  the  former  happy 
family,  and  destroying  the  peace  of  millions  of 
human  beings.  Yet,  in  ancient  governments, 
the  daring  ambition  or  caprice  of  a  single  indi- 
vidual, would  often  bring  that  dreadful  scourge 
upon  a  whole  country.  Such  was  it  that  caused 
the  celebrated  Trojan  war,  which  was  continued 
to  the  great  length  of  ten  years.  Let  it  not  be 
said  that  this  is  going  too  far  back  into  the  annals 
of  history  ,•  the  laws  at  that  period  were  scarcely 
framed.  Eight  hundred  years  later,  what  was 
there  in  their  laws  and  customs  to  check  the  dar- 
ing ambition  of  that  scourge  of  the  human  race, 
Alexander,"  who  caused  the  death  of  millions  of 
his  fellow  beings,  that  he  might  be  called  great. 
At  the  battle  of  Arbela,  in  which  the  forces  of 
Alexander  engaged  the  Persians,  the  number  of 
Persians  slain  was  estimated  at  three  hundred 
thousand.  Are  such  sanguinary  conflicts  calcu- 
lated to  diffuse  happiness  throughout  an  empire, 
even  though  the  ambition  of  the  destroyer  be 
satisfied  ?  But  not  to  Alexander  alone  are  they 
to  be  limited.  Of  what  does  the  history  of  an- 
cient nations  consist,  but  of  the  recitals  of  such 
occurrences  ?  Power  was  the  object  of  most  of 
the  rulers,  and  to  attain  that,  no  crime  was  too 
horrid  for  them  to  be  guilty  of;  no  deed  too 
black  for  them  to  commit !     Millions  of  lives 


SELECTIONS.  125 

were  offered  at  the  shrine  of  their  idolatry,  and 
nations  were  destroyed  tliat  they  might  be  ren- 
dered famous  ! 

To  the  enjoyment  of  happiness,  liberty  and  a  i 
pure  religion  are  indispensable.  But  do  we  find 
these  in  the  governments  of  the  ancients  ?  Far 
from  it !  The  government  of  Rome  appeared  to 
have  been  founded  on  just  principles  ;  but  soon 
it  was  found,  that,  although  the  citizens  retained 
the  name  of  freemen,  their  laws  were  insufficient 
to  protect  them  from  the  tyranny  of  an  absolute 
monarchy,  and  their  government  fell  into  ihe 
hands  of  those,  who,  regardless  of  their  country's 
happiness  and  prosperity,  only  used  their  power 
to  satisfy  the  demands  of  their  own  ambition. 
The  happiness  of  the  people  and  tranquillity  of 
government  are  inseparably  connected.  But,  on 
looking  over  the  pages  of  history,  do  we  there 
find  tranquillity  in  the  government  of  ancient 
nations  ?  No  !  far  from  it.  1'heir  very  nature  for- 
bids it.  Their  object  was  not  to  secure  happi- 
ness to  the  people,  but  to  render  them  a  terror  to 
surrounding  nations.  Their  religion,  instead  of 
being  the  harbinger  of  peace  and  happiness,  often- 
times involved  them  in  conflicts  with  other  peo- 
ple, and  thus,  instead  of  proving  to  them  a  bless- 
ing, proved  a  curse.  The  mind  cannot  be  at  rest 
under  dark,  uncertain  superstitions  ;  yet  it  Avas 


126  SELECTIONS. 

these  that  composed  their  religion,  and  which 
constituted  a  great  part  of  their  government.  It 
was  these  that  often  controlled  the  destinies  of 
whole  nations,  plunging  them  into  war,  or  pre- 
serving peace,  as  accident  dictated. 

Nations  would  resort  to  the  oracle  to  listen  to 
the  wild  exclamations  and  incoherent  language 
of  a  crazy  woman,  —  placing  their  reliance  upon 
the  construction  the  designing  priest  gave  to  her 
words.  They  had  a  god  for  almost  every  occu- 
pation and  business  of  life,  without  whose  favor 
it  would  be  impossible  to  progress  in  prosperity, 
—  and  to  obtain  which,  immense  sacrifice  must 
be  offered  up.  The  appetites  of  the  officiating 
priests,  who  in  reality  constituted  the  gods,  often 
brought  ruin  upon  their  devotees.  Temples, 
magnificent  beyond  description,  were  erected  to 
imaginary  gods  and  goddesses,  that  their  suppos- 
ed favor  might  be  obtained  and  their  dreaded 
anger  averted.  Not  content  with  giving  their 
cattle  and  riches  as  sacrifices  to  the  gods,  often 
their  slaves,  or  those  whom  they  had  conquered 
in  war,  were  made  the  victims  of  their  idolatrous 
worship,  and  perished  by  the  knife  or  in  the 
flames,  as  an  offering  to  some  tutelary  deity. 

Are  such  things  consistent  with  human  hap- 
piness ?  The  mere  recital  of  them  is  revolting 
to  our  nature  ;  and  can  it  be  doubted  that  human 


SELECTIONS.  127 

nature  is  or  ever  was  the  same  ?  How  then  can 
we  reconcile,  with  the  idea  of  happiness,  the  dis- 
gusting scenes  of  the  arena,  the  gladiatorial  com- 
bats, the  deadly  strife  between  man  and  man,  and 
the  spectacle  of  the  miserable  struggle  to  escape 
the  fangs  of  the  wild  beast,  with  which  it  was 
customary  for  monarchs  to  debase  the  minds  of 
the  people  ;  sometimes  even  joining  in  the  strife 
themselves,  and,  like  the  cowardly  Commodus, 
apparently  taking  a  pride  in  tlieir  degrading  ex- 
ploits ?  These  were  the  amusements  of  those 
happy  times,  secured  to  them  by  kind,  wise  laivs  ! 
And  what  was  their  eflect  on  the  people  ?  Did 
they  make  them  the  refined  and  polished  people 
of  the  present  day  ?  No  !  Although  their  man- 
ners were  not  as  rude  as  those  of  the  uncultivated 
wanderers  of  the  forest,  still  the  nobler,  the  finer 
feelings  of  the  man,  which  bestow  upon  us  our 
happiness,  were  lost  to  them  ;  —  their  senses  be- 
came blunt,  from  the  frequent  repetition  of  the 
scenes  of  war,  and  the  ghastly  spectacle  of  the 
arena.  They  were,  in  fact,  that  which  is  the 
pest  of  the  earth,  a  military  people,  —  the  design 
of  their  laws  was  accomplished.  We  search  the 
record  of  history  in  vain,  to  find  those  laws, 
those  forms  of  governments,  that  were  calculated) 
in  their  operations  and  their  effects,  to  dilfuse 
happiness  throughout  an  empire. 


128  SELECTIONS. 

We  are  accustomed  to  admire  the  valor  of 
the  soldiers  of  Greece,  Sparta  and  Rome,  and 
dwell  with  wonder  on  their  heroic  deeds,  forget- 
ting the  while,  that  their  victories  are  spreading 
desolation  through  the  hearts  of  millions  of  be- 
ings, and  adding  to  the  distress  of  nations.  We 
forget  that  military  force  is  supported  by  oppres- 
sive and  arbitrary  laws.  Man  is  in  his  disposi- 
tion naturally  peaceful,  and  will  only  resort  to 
war  when  compelled.  What  then  must  have 
been  the  rigor  of  those  laws  that  made  the  peo- 
ple wholly  military  I  Let  us  follow  the  history 
of  Rome,  when  she  had  arrived,  at  the  price  of 
thousands  of  lives,  at  the  proud  distinction  of 
Mistress  of  the  World  ;  and  when,  if  at  any  time, 
she  should  be  most  happy.  We  find,  instead  of 
that  happiness,  a  misery  far  from  it.  She  had 
been  raised  to  her  grandeur  by  military  force  ; 
and  her  military  power  was  a  blind  and  irresist- 
ible instrument  of  oppression,  ready  at  all  times 
to  obey  the  command  of  a  favorite  leader,  whe- 
ther to  pillage,  to  destroy  an  enemy,  or  subvert 
the  liberties  of  their  own  empire.  The  throne 
and  purple  robe  were  literally  bathed  in  blood, 
and  the  rulers  of  the  empire  were  not  chosen 
even  by  the  senate  ;  but  were  appointed,  invested 
with  supreme  power,  and  deposed,  to  make  way 
for   other  favorites,  as  the   passion  or  caprice  of 


SELECTIONS.  120 

tJie  military  dictated.  Tlie  emperor,  appointed 
by  them  one  day,  might  be  made  tlie  victim  of 
tlieir  anger  or  revenge,  the  next ;  and  ere  the 
blood  that  flowed  from  the  veins  of  the  late  as- 
sassinated ruler,  be  dry,  another,  perhaps  a  bar- 
barian peasant,  is  elevated  to  the  vacant  throne. 
Although,  during  the  reign  of  Adrian  and  the 
Antonines,  the  Romans  enjoyed  peace  and  hap- 
piness, yet  that  enjoyment  was  transient,  and  de- 
pended, not  so  much  on  the  laws  as  on  the  pecu- 
liar dispositions  of  the  rulers  ;  for  under  the  same 
laws  and  the  same  government  of  "  absolute 
power,"  the  dark,  unrelenting  Tiberius,  the  furi- 
ous Caligula,  the  profligate  and  cruel  Nero,  the 
beastly  Yitellius,  and  the  timid,  inhuman  Domi- 
tian,  committed  atrocities  such  as  condemn  them 
to  everlasting  infamy.  During  the  reign  of  Gal- 
lienus,  such  was  the  discontent  and  unhappy 
state  of  the  people,  that  there  appeared  nineteen 
pretenders  to  the  purple  robe  and  the  title  of  em- 
peror. These  are  a  few  of  the  efiects  of  those 
happy  laws  that  tend  to  make  a  nation  soldiers  ! 
Would  this  be  the  case  if  the  government  were 
such  as  to  difiiise,  by  its  wise  and  beneficent 
laws,  happiness  among  the  people  ?  The  oppo- 
nents of  this  view  of  the  question  may  perhaps 
say  that  it  is  an  extreme  point  ;  that  this  is  the 
period  when  Rome  began  to  lose  her  glory,  and 


130  SELECTIONS. 

decline.  Exactly  ;  but  why  should  that  ancient 
government  have  declined  at  all  ?  Why,  if  the 
people  were  happy  under  their  laws,  should  it 
not  have  continued  in  its  glory  until  the  present 
time,  —  not  only  retaining  its  glory  as  it  then 
was,  bat  gaining  new  laurels,  and  acquiring  new 
fame  ;  not  the  glory  of  military  achievements, 
but  that  which  avails  a  rapidly  progressing, 
happy  and  peaceful  nation  ? 

Let  us  now  turn  from  the  contemplation  of 
these  unhappy  states,  to  that  of  modern  laws. 
In  doing  this,  let  us  first  view  the  spirit  in  which 
they  were  conceived  and  formed.  In  referring 
to  modern  laws  and  customs,  I  shall  principally 
take  for  my  example  those  of  the  United  States, 
as  being  strictly  modern  in  all  their  operations, 
and  only  slightly  touch  those  of  the  governments 
of  Europe  ;  for  many  of  them  do  not  contain  in 
their  elements  the  true  spirit  of  liberty.  Yet 
they  will  bear,  at  the  present  time,  comparison 
with  their  state  when  the  people  were  mostly 
serfs  or  bond-men  to  feudal  lords,  and  governed 
by  a  thousand  petty  tyrants.  But  to  return. 
Our  modern  laws  are  based  upon  these  self-evident 
truths,  "  that  all  men  are  created  equal ;  that 
they  are  endowed  by  their  Creator  with  certain 
unalienable  rights  ;  that  among  these  are  life, 
liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness  ;  and  that  to 


SELECTIONS.  131 

secure  these  rights,  governments  are  instituted 
among  men,  deriving  their  just  powers  from  the 
consent  of  the  governed."  These  were  the  im- 
alienable  rights,  the  framers  of  our  constitution 
mutually  pledged  to  each  other  their  lives,  their 
fortunes  and  their  sacred  honors,  to  sustain  ;  and 
our  laws  are  framed  with  this  object. 

This  end  has  been  accomplished  ;  that  peace 
and  happiness  are  secured  to  the  people,  it  requires 
no  searching  of  the  records  of  the  historic  volume 
to  show  ;  but  I  refer  you  to  your  own  experience  ; 
to  the  scenes  that  each  day  meet  the  eye  ;  to  the 
pages  of  every  newspaper  with  which  our  coun- 
try abounds.  Among  those  laws  which  serve 
most  effectually  to  promote  our  happiness,  are 
those  which  secure  to  us  the  right  of  universal 
suffrage,  trial  by  jury,  and  religious  freedom. 
On  the  benefits  of  religious  freedom  it  is  unne- 
cessary to  dwell.  This  was  one  of  the  grand 
objects,  to  obtain  which  our  forefathers  crossed 
the  ocean,  and  made  the  wilderness  their  home  ; 
preferring  to  worship  God  in  a  conscientious 
manner,  and  be  happy  in  the  desert,  to  worshipping 
him  as  others  dictated.  In  ancient  governments, 
their  religious  and  superstitious  observances  were 
closely  connected  with  the  laws,  and  to  the  ruler 
was  often  given  religious  supremacy.  It  was 
even  customary  to  deil'y  them,  thus  making   ob^ 


132  SELECTIONS. 

jects  of  worship  of  men  of  the  worst  description 
and  habits. 

But  our  institutions  are  different ;  we  worship 
in  whatever  form  and  manner  we  please,  thus 
securing  to  ourselves  a  means  of  obtaining  happi- 
ness. Our  God  is  God,  and  our  worship  of  him 
is  the  voluntary  tribute  of  a  grateful  heart. 

One  of  our  greatest  privileges  and  most  inesti- 
mable rights,  is  that  of  universal  suffrage,  by 
which  we  secure  to  ourselves  liberty,  that  which 
is  of  all  things  the  most  precious.  Our  people 
are  here  truly  represented,  not  by  life  representa- 
tives, who  after  a  time  represent  the  people  or 
not,  as  they  choose;  but  as  often  as  the  people 
acquire  new  principles,  so  are  they  represented 
by  their  delegates.  Bat  it  is  unnecessary  to  en- 
large on  this.  There  never  was  among  the  gov- 
ernments of  old,  one  where  the  people  were  so 
perfectly  represented  as  they  are  in  our  own  ; 
and  therefore  one  great  cause  why  our  laws  are 
more  conducive  to  public  happiness  than  ancient 
laws. 

There  is  one  other  feature  of  our  present  time, 
which  it  is  especially  needful  to  mention :  it  is 
that  law  which  secures  to  all  the  benefits  of  edu- 
cation. A  law  more  conducive  to  public  happi- 
ness than  this  can  scarcely  be  imagined. 

Since  our  country  was  first   settled,  this  has 


SELECTIONS.  133 

been  an  object  of  special  attention  in  our  legisla- 
tive halls.  And  what  is  the  result  ?  No  other 
nation  ever  so  rapidly  progressed  in  all  that  tends 
to  make  a  people  happy  and  respected  at  home 
and  abroad. 

Commerce  and  the  fine  arts  have  here  pro- 
gressed as  in  no  other  country.  It  is  compara- 
tively but  few  years  since  our  vast  extent  of  ter- 
ritory was  a  trackless  \vilderness,  inhabited  by 
the  roving  Indian.  It  is  but  little  more  than 
threescore  years  since  we  became  free  and  inde- 
pendent. Yet  in  this  short  time  we  have  so  rap- 
idly advanced,  that  we  hold  no  secondary  rank 
in  the  scale  of  nations  ;  and  one  of  the  best  proofs 
of  the  happiness  secured  to  the  people  by  our 
laws,  is  seen  in  the  thousands  that  flock  here 
to  seek  under  our  modern  laws,  that  happiness 
they  cannot  find  under  their  own  forms  of  gov- 
ernment. 


134  SELECTIONS. 


YOUTH  VERSUS  MANHOOD. 

It  has  been  asserted  by  some  one,  (Gibbon,  I 
believe,)  that  "the  common  opinion,  that  youth 
experiences  more  happiness  than  manhood,  is 
wrong."  I  still  hold  to  the  old  opinion,  that 
youth  is  the  happiest  period  of  life  ;  for  the  very 
nature  of  the  circumstances  of  Youth  and  Man- 
hood, would  seem  to  deny  the  truth  of  his  posi- 
tion. The  young  child  seems  to  have  no  other 
resource  than  enjoyment,  as  all  care  is  taken  off 
its  mind  by  the  kindness  of  the  parents  ;  or  if  its 
fair  brow  is  rendered  gloomy  by  some  petty  oc- 
currence, it  is  like  a  cloud  for  a  moment  inter- 
cepting the  rays  of  the  smiling  sun,  which  scarce 
casts  its  shadow  ere  it  is  gone,  and  all  is  bright 
and  beautiful  as  before.  The  light  heart  of  youth 
never  suffers  sorrow  long  ;  but,  ever  full  of  buoy- 
ancy, the  merry  laugh  soon  dispels  every  trace 
of  uahappiness.  In  the  youth,  almost  every 
thing  excites  curiosity  and  wonder.  To  a  man, 
even,  any  new  discovery  is  a  matter  of  happi- 
ness ;  how  great  then  must  be  the  happiness  of 
the  youth,  to  whom  almost  every  object  he  sees 
or  meets  is  a   new    subject   for   his    ever-busy 


SELECTIONS. 


135 


thoughts  to  dwell  on  and  wonder  over.  One  of 
the  strongest  arguments  I  can  use,  perhaps,  in 
favor  of  the  happiness  of  youth,  is  the  very 
construction  of  our  frames ;  the  various  stages 
through  which  we  pass,  ere  maturity  is  attained. 
When  unhappiness  and  sorrow  are  allowed  to 
prey  even  upon  man,  does  it  not  injure  his  con- 
stitution, aftect  his  health  ?  If  such  is  a  man's 
every-day  experience,  how  much  more  deleteri- 
ous then  would  its  eflect  be  upon  youth — him 
whose  frame  is  as  yet  unprepared  to  buffet  the 
storms  of  the  world  !  But  a  kind  providence  has 
so  ordered  it,  that  all  his  works  harmonize  with 
each  other.  Is  the  constitution  in  youth  fender, 
—  is  it  less  able  to  bear  the  hard,  sad  trials  of  a 
mature  age  ?  —  it  is  so  ordained,  that  those  trials 
are  light ;  and  as  the  young  frame  requires  en- 
joyment, and  relaxation  from  sorrow,  so  is  the 
heart  created  light,  buoyant  and  happy.  Another 
strong  argument  in  favor  of  this  opinion,  is  its 
universality. 

Every  day  we  hear  it  said  that  such  is  the 
case,  by  those  whom  experience  has  taught  the 
sad  truth.  Almost  every  writer  dwells  upon  the 
happier  days  of  youth.  As  man  gazes  upon  those 
revelling  in  the  charms  of  youth  around  him,  he 
sighs  to  think  that  he  can  no  more  be  free  and 
gay  as  they  —  that  their  sports  no  more  impart  a 


136  SELECTIONS. 

constant  charm  and  happiness  to  his  soul  ;  and 
as  he  views  them,  memory  carries  him  back  to 
those  "  halcyon  days,"  when  almost  every  breath 
he  drew,  was  a  draught  of  pleasure  and  happiness 
—  when  every  thing  was  pleasing  —  when  there 
was  novelty  in  every  occurrence  —  when,  with 
gay,  merry  companions,  he  sported  the  hours 
away,  nor  scarce  knew  aught  than  delight  — 
when  the  future  itself  was  beautiful  with  bright 
visions  —  when,  if  aught  of  trouble  cast  a  gloom 
over  his  soul,  a  kind  parent  was  ever  nigh  to  re- 
lieve him  of  his  sorrows,  and  guide  him  in  those 
paths  where  happiness  was  always  found.  How 
many  tender  recollections  of  joy  are  awakened 
in  him  by  the  sound  of  that  name,  parents !  A 
mother,  ever  ready  to  grant  his  slightest  wish,  if 
it  bat  tended  to  his  happiness  or  benefit  ;  a 
father,  "  whose  favor,  like  clouds  of  spring,  might 
lower, 

And  utter  now  and  then  an  awful  voice, 
But  had  a  blessing  in  its  darkest  frown  ;  " 

a  smile  from  either  of  whom  he  would  now  wel- 
come as  one  of  the  most  precious  of  treasures. 
But  alas  !  time  has  wrought  many  sad  changes  in 
its  rapid  flight ;  he  has  grown  older,  he  has  grown 
wiser,  perhaps,  but  not  a  happier  being — for 
those  parents  who  were  wont  to  cheer  him  in  all 
his  troubles  and  difficulties,  and  whose  only  aim 


SELECTIONS.  137 

seemed  to  be  to  make  him  happy — with  time, 
have  also  gone,  and  can  no  more  aid  him  in  his 
onward  path.  Other  friends,  near  and  dear,  have 
also  gone,  who,  in  youth,  were  happy  compan- 
ions, and  he  is  left  almost  alone  of  those  with 
whom  he  whiled  away  so  many  pleasant  hours. 
O!  what  would  he  not  give,  could  he  but  recall 
them,  that  they  might  again  sit  side  by  side,  and 
reflect  each  other's  smiles  ?  But  no,  they  are 
gone,  and  therefore  one  cause  of  unhappiness. 
Sad  impressions  remain  longer  on  the  mind  of 
man  than  of  youth,  and  receive  readier  admit- 
tance there  ;  for  it  is  the  natural  feeling  of  youth 
to  shun  aught  that  tends  to  dampen  its  gayety, 
and  it  is  thus  always  looking  to  the  bright  side 
of  the  picture. 

The  cares  of  man  are  many.  His  business, 
and  the  support  and  welfare  of  his  family,  occupy 
most  of  his  attention.  Perhaps  it  will  be  said, 
that  in  these  consists  his  happiness ;  that  these 
are  they  which  give  to  him  his  enjoyment.  I 
answer  :  the  experience  of  the'  great  majority 
of  mankind  contradicts  the  assertion.  I  know 
there  is  a  pleasure,  when  one  sits  down  for  reflec- 
tion, in  knowing  that  he  has  been  doing  well, 
and  that,  at  times,  in  the  bosom  of  his  family,  he 
enjoys  much  pure  happiness  ;  but,  think  you, 
that  his  happiness  at  such  times  exceeds  the  hap- 
10 


138  SELECTIONS. 

piness  of  those  by  whom  he  is  surrounded  ?  He 
is  happy,  because  they  are  happy,  and  care  is 
taken  off  their  minds  ;  yet,  amidst  all  his  joy, 
the  thought  will  rise  to  his  mind,  that  they  must 
soon  experience  the  trials  of  the  world  ;  that  they 
are  fast  attaining  an  age,  when  their  lot  shall  be 
among  its  troubled  waters  ;  and  a  shade  is  cast 
over  his  enjoyment,  as  he  thinks  of  the  many 
disappointments  they  are  destined  to  meet  with 
in  their  future  progress ;  and  asks,  shall  these  go 
among  the  upright  and  pure  in  heart,  or  shall 
their  lot  be  among  the  degraded  and  miserable  ? 
Questions  like  these,  which  must  each  returning 
day  occur  to  the  mind  of  the  parent,  are  not  such 
as  convey  happiness  to  his  soul ;  for  happiness, 
in  a  great  measure,  depends  on  the  fulfilment  of 
our  good  desires,  or  their  certainty ;  but  here,  all 
is  uncertainty ;  all  is  doubt.  Does  the  child  have 
within  it  such  a  source  of  thoughts,  that  convey 
so  little  happiness  to  the  soul  ?  No,  far  from  it  ; 
heedless  of  the  future,  or  heeding  it  only  to  re- 
gard its  bright'  visions,  (for  experience  has  not 
yet  taught  it  that,  like  the  will-o^-ihe-ioisp,  these 
visions  recede  on  approaching  them,)  it  laughs 
still,  though  the  heart  of  the  parent  be  heavy, 
yet,  concealing  its  grief  with  a  smile,  to  cheer 
the  child  in  its  sports.  Thus  is  it  with  the  pa- 
rent ;  thus  with  the  child  ;  the  happiness  of  the 


SELECTIONS.  139 

one  is  secured,  while  the  other  is  indulging  in 
doubts  and  fears.  But  his  business,  independent 
of  his  family,  also  has  its  cares  and  troubles,  giv- 
ing him  even  much  less  happiness  than  they  ; 
and  let  me  add,  this,  his  business,  occupies  the 
greater  portion  of  his  time.  I  am  not  one  of 
those  who  believe  that  perfect  happiness  is  to  be 
the  lot  of  any  man  in  this  world  ;  but  believe, 
with  Dr.  Dewey,  that  man  is  formed  rather  to 
perform  a  duty^  than  enjoy  perfect  happiness  — 
which,  though  most  persons  seek  it,  yet  who 
finds?  —  that  duty  to  be  performed,  whether  it 
imparts  happiness  in  the  performance  or  not ; 
and  it  oft-times  happens,  that  it  does  not. 

From  the  cares  of  life,  from  the  performance 
of  these  duties,  the  child  is,  in  a  great  measure, 
exempt.  —  Why  ?  It  has  not  reached  an  age 
when  they  may  be  said  to  belong  to  it,  and  con- 
sequently does  not  meet  them  ;  and  the  parents 
take  its  cares  to  themselves.  To  the  man  of  an 
enlarged  mind,  I  will  acknowledge,  there  is  nuich 
of  pleasure  to  be  derived  from  reflection,  and  the 
contemplation  of  works  of  mighty  genius ;  but 
there  are  sad  reflections  to  be  derived  from  the 
historic  page,  or  the  books  of  the  philosopher,  as 
well  as  pleasing  thoughts.  To  the  lover  of  free- 
dom, to  the  ardent  patriot,  what  source  of  greater 
unhappincss  than  that  page  which  records  some 


140  SELECTIONS. 

act  destructive  of  his  liberty,  or  the  liberties  of 
those  bound  to  him  by  the  strongest  ties  of  sym- 
pathy ?  To  the  philanthropist,  what  source  of 
greater  unhappiness  than  that  page  which  records 
the  destruction  of  thousands  by  the  iron  arm  of 
war,  —  the  cruelty  of  some  tyranny  or  despotism 
—  showing  at  once  how  man  can  be  influenced 
by  the  wild  fury  of  his  passions,  to  deeds  of  the 
darkest  dye  ?  These  are  sources  of  reflection  far 
from  being  happy  ones  ;  for  though  the  man  of 
these  States  may,  as  he  reads  of  these,  thank 
"  high  heaven  "  that  our  government  is  not  like 
those  ;  still,  though  that  may  be  a  pleasing  re- 
flection for  a  moment,  he  will  be  led  to  review 
her  institutions,  and  the  state  of  society  on  which 
they  depend,  and  there  find  many  things  over 
which  to  lament ;  he  will  then  find  that  the  pas- 
sions which  influenced  men  in  former  days,  con- 
tinue to  influence  them  now,  however  much 
the  show  of  them  may  be  modified  by  time  or 
fashion. 


SELECTIONS.  141 


THE  STREAM  OF  TENDENCIES. 

Whither  is  the  stream  of  tendencies  ?  To 
what  are  we  hastening  ?  As  I  review  the  course 
of  history,  it  seems  to  me  the  world  is  hastening 
to  some  great  event ;  or  rather,  great  events  are 
taking  place,  or  rapidly  hastening  to  their  con- 
summation. The  light  of  a  new  era  seems  burst- 
ing upon  us,  which  is  fast  increasing  to  meridian 
splendor. 

He  who  reflects  upon  the  pages  of  history, 
will  perceive  that  the  world  has  ever  been  pro- 
gressing ;  though  perhaps  that  progress  may  not 
always  have  been  as  rapid  as  in  the  present  age, 
in  that  which,  both  politically  and  morally,  tends 
to  give  man  his  correct  station  :  to  make  him  know 
and  appreciate  his  high  destiny,  and  inspire  him 
with  a  noble  benevolence  and  disinterestedness. 
Selfishness  has  long  been  the  ruling  spirit  in  the 
affairs  of  men  ;  but  each  generation,  as  it  passes 
away,  does  and  will  perceive  that  it  has  less  and 
less  influence  ;  and  men  Avill  more  and  more, 
each  successive  age,  pay  regard  to  that  command 
which  contains  within  it  the  eerms  of  all  civil iza- 
lion,  and  is  man's  surest  guide  of  conduct,  "  thou 


142  SELECTIONS. 

shalt  love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself."  It  is  the 
lack  of  the  principle  of  universal  benevolence 
inculcated  in  this  command,  which  has  been  the 
cause  of  almost  all  the  horrors  recorded  in  the 
pages  of  history.  From  the  earliest  periods,  we 
have  seen  the  selfishness  of  governments,  some- 
times shown  in  the  despotism  of  a  single  person, 
sometimes  in  that  of  the  many.  Before  the  Chris- 
tian era,  the  religion  of  the  people,  their  habits 
and  dispositions,  and  their  idolatry,  directly  en- 
couraged it ;  since  that  period,  it  has,  to  the  pres- 
ent time,  been  giving  way,  slowly  indeed,  to 
nobler  convictions  —  though  at  times  it  would 
seem  that  better  sentiments  had  no  room  in  the 
human  heart  ;  yet  each  revolution,  each  dark  age, 
has  more  clearly  developed  their  necessity.  For- 
merly, nations,  as  individuals  —  they  appear  to 
have  been  but  as  individuals,  since  the  will  of 
one  person  declared  their  action  —  were  guided 
only  by  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  as  they  were 
governed  by  feelings  of  revenge,  ambition,  ava- 
rice, or  fear.  Did  a  nation  deem  itself  insulted, 
or  did  another  seem  to  interpose  between  it  and 
its  base  desires,  war  or  other  injury  was  at  once 
determined  upon  by  its  rulers,  without  consulting 
the  interests  of  its  neighbors,  any  further  than 
they  might  be  made  subservient  to  their  own 
purposes  ;  they  scarce  consulted  their  own  sub- 


SELECTIONS.  143 

jects  further  than  to  inquire  if  they  were  able 
to  carry  out   their   views.      Gradually  this  has 
been,  and  is  changing.     The  truth  is  becoming 
more  and  more  apparent,  that  men  are  "  created 
ecpial,  and  endowed  by  their  Creator  with  certain 
unalienable   rights."     Men  feel   more  and   more 
forcibly  that  they  have  a  common  interest.     No 
great   event   takes  place,  but  truth  is  developed, 
brighter  and  brighter.     The  world  is  not  now,  as 
centuries  since,  enveloped   in   darkness.     People 
are  not  now  slaves  to  ignorance  ;  but  they  have 
progressed  in  knowledge,  and  they  demand  that 
principles  of  government  should  be  made  to  con- 
form to  that  progress.    Enlightened  governments 
are   no  more  to  consult  merely  their   own  inte- 
rest, but  to  learn  that  the  interest  of  the  people 
is  to  be  their  guide  of  conduct  ;  that  man  has  no 
natural  authority  over  his  fellow  man  ;  and  that 
their  only  proper  power  is  such  as  is  granted  them 
by  the  governed,  to  be  exercised  for  their  sole 
benefit.     As  we  look  upon   the  various   govern- 
ments of  the  age,  do  we  not  see  that  they  are  ap- 
proaching nearer  and  nearer  this  important  state  ? 
Have  not  France  and  England  particularly  shown 
it  in  their  legislation  during   the   past  century  ? 
Have  not  the  other  governments  of  Europe  been 
drawing  nearer  the  same  liberal  principle  ?     Or 
if  they  have  not,  has  not  their  legislation  shown 


144  SELECTIONS. 

that  their  people  are  comuig  to  the  resokition 
that  such  shall  be  the  case  ?  If  France  have  for- 
tified Paris,  it  will  prove  but  a  weak  struggle  to 
resist  that  which  will,  sooner  or  later,  weaken  its 
improper  power,  and  disrobe  it  of  those  habili- 
ments which  might  better  become  a  darker  age  ? 
No !  the  armaments  of  war  have  no  longer  their 
former  power ;  public  opinion  has  become  a  far 
more  potent  instrument. 

It  is  believed  by  men  who  have  considered  the 
subject,  (indeed,  every  newspaper  bears  on  its 
face  the  evidence,)  that  the  present  aristocratic 
governments  of  Europe  must,  in  a  great  degree, 
if  not  entirely,  before  many  centuries  pass  away, 
yield  to  the  wishes  of  their  subjects,  and  give 
place  to  forms,  acknowledging  the  will  of  the  ma- 
jority, instead  of  holding  all  power  in  the  hands 
of  the  few.  The  rulers  of  other  countries  and 
their  subjects  have  long  been  directing  their  gaze 
towards  the  government  of  the  United  States  ; 
they  have  watched  with  eagerness  the  workings 
of  that  constitution  formed  upon  the  democratic 
principle  of  "equal  rights  and  equal  justice." 
More  than  threescore  years  have  passed  away 
since  our  government  was  formed ;  and,  under 
its  operations,  the  people  have  from  time  to  time 
effected,  in  peace,  such  changes,  such  revolutions, 
as,  with  other  nations,  would  have  called  forth 


SELECTIONS.  145 

faction  after  faction,  and  host  on  host,  in  deadly 
strife  for  the  supremacy.  Why  this  difference  ? 
The  one  system  of  government  places  no  reliance, 
no  confidence,  in  the  great  mass  ;  and,  with  the 
other,  it  is  only  the  confidence  placed  in  the  ma- 
joriti/ that  sustains  it.  Do  the  majority  here  wish 
a  change  in  their  laws  or  the  administration  of 
them,  the  peaceable  deposite  of  the  ballot  effects 
that  change,  which,  under  an  aristocratic  system, 
could  only  be  produced  by  appeal  to  arms.  Sub- 
jects of  other  governments  have  watched  these 
things  with  jealousy  ;  they,  not  unnaturally,  deem 
that  they  also  are  capable  of  governing  them- 
selves. But  a  few  years  may  pass  by,  ere  that 
confidence  will  be  obtained,  either  by  force  or 
voluntary  concession,  and  that  aristocratic  spirit 
give  place  to  a  more  democratic  benevolence  ; 
for  changes  must  take  place  in  the  political  world, 
corresponding  to  the  progress  of  the  mass  in 
knowledge,  and  their  appreciation  of  their  rights. 
We  may  not,  indeed,  suppose  these  things  will 
always  be  effected  in  blood,  for  I  believe  we  have 
approached  an  age,  the  general  spirit  of  which  is 
opposed  to  these  strifes  in  such  entire  opposition 
to  all  benevolent  feelings  ;  yet,  if  war  be  neces- 
sary to  their  accomplishment,  war  will  come ; 
—  but  truth  will  prevail  ;  its  march  is  onward. 
In   the  general  progress  of  nations  towards  the 


146  SELECTIONS. 

knowledge  and  dissemination  of  truth  and  liberal 
principles,  the  United  States  have,  since  they 
were  formed  into  a  government,  been  first  and 
foremost.  Shall  they,  henceforth,  retain  that 
advanced  position  ? 


SELECTIONS. 


147 


HAPPINESS. 

Tell  me  not  that  the  grand  object  of  man's 
pursuit  ill  this  world  is  happiness !  True,  it 
makes  an  excellent  theory,  but  every  day's  expe- 
rience proves  its  hollowness.  Look  abroad  upon 
the  world ;  cast  your  eyes  upon  the  multitudes 
that  throng  our  busy  streets ;  each  person,  with 
a  jealous  disposition,  regarding  only  himself,  and 
jostling  all  others  that  in  any  manner  impede  his 
way,  and  tell  me,  if  you  can,  that  happiness  is 
the  grand  search  of  mankind.  The  very  nature 
of  happiness  is  inconsistent  with  the  pursuits  of 
most  men.  Can  his  object  be  happiness  who 
toils  incessantly,  month  after  month,  ransacking  in 
the  most  painful  manner  book  after  book,  to 
procure  that  wherewith  to  satisfy  his  ambitious 
aspirations  for  fame  .-'  Can  the  merchant  seek 
happiness  in  his  life  of  excitement,  laboring  all 
the  day  long  for  years,  alternately  perplexed  with 
fears  and  hopes,  lest  his  schemes  should  fail, 
and  whom  the  midnight  lamp  still  finds  poring 
over  his  ledgers  and  day-books  with  compressed 
lips  and  pale  looks  ?  Can  happiness  be  the  ob- 
ject of  his  pursuit,  who  regards  not  the  charms 


148  SELECTIONS. 

of  life,  heeds  not  the  voice  of  friends,  but, 
clad  in  filth  and  wretchedness,  wanders  through 
the  streets,  picking  np  whatever  can  be  sold  for 
a  penny,  and  hoards  the  produce  of  this  miserable 
toil  in  secret,  that  in  secret  the  miser  may  gloat 
over  his  ill-gotten  wealth  ?  How  little  like  hap- 
piness do  we  see  in  these  !  And  is  it  not  the 
same  with  all  other  classes,  excepting,  perhaps,  a 
few  solitary  instances  ? 

Now,  in  what  does  happiness  consist ;  or  what 
is  it  that  confers  happiness,  that  almost  all  miss 
it  ?  A  benevolent,  contented  disposition.  But 
with  whom  do  these  rest  ?  Who,  as  he  looks 
around  the  world,  views  the  habits  of  his  friends 
or  looks  into  his  own  heart,  can  answer  ?  Who 
strive  to  be  contented,  or  benevolent  truly  ?  The 
politician  cannot  be  contented  until  he  has  risen 
from  the  lowest  station  to  the  highest  office, 
and  then  he  is  discontented  because  he  can  go 
no  farther.  The  merchant  is  discontented  be- 
cause he  has  not  money,  and  cannot  make  it  so 
fast  as  he  could  wish.  So  with  the  miser  ;  and 
so  with  almost  all  else,  whatever  the  trade  or 
profession.  Those  in  power  are  unhappy  be- 
cause their  power  is  limited ;  and  those  who 
have  none,  complain  for  that  reason.  But  dis- 
content is  not  the  only  passion  that  renders  men 
unhappy,   for  invariably  it  also    brings  with  it 


SELECTIONS.  149 

envy,  and  thus  each  one  looks  with  a  jealous  eye 
on  his  neighbor,  deeming  him  more  happy  than 
himself;  while,  in  fact,  that  neighbor  regards 
him  with  like  feelings.  Were  happiness  truly 
man's  pursuit,  each  one  would  strive  to  be  con- 
tent witii  what  he  has,  whether  of  money  or 
power.  There  are  some,  no  doubt,  who  approach 
nearer  to  the  enjoyment  of  happiness  than  others, 
and  they  are  those,  in  my  humble  opinion,  who 
have  the  most  vanity  in  their  composition. 

I  know  that,  in  so  writing,  I  am  not  writing 
exactly  as  very  many  good  persons  think  ;  still 
I  cannot  help  coinciding  with  the  doctor  in 
Ward's  Fielding,  "  that  vanity,  as  it  reigns  in  the 
heart  and  controls  the  actions,  is  one  of  the 
greatest  of  all  contributors  to  the  happiness  of 
men  in  general ;"  prevailing,  of  course,  to  a 
greater  extent  in  some  persons  than  in  others. 
We  can  scarcely  analyze  an  action  or  a  saying, 
but  we  find  vanity  at  the  bottom  to  suggest  it. 
Where  nought  would  seem  able  to  give  pleasure 
to  one,  vanity  will  fill  him  with  perfect,  complete 
happiness.  In  the  all-absorbing  contemplation 
of  himself,  thoughts  of  the  rest  of  the  world  are 
shut  out,  and  thus  one  of  the  greatest  sources  of 
misery  cut  off:  for  if  a  vain  person  be  not  admir- 
ed, he  does  not  perceive  it ;  or,  if  he  do,  admires 
himself  so  much  the  more,  that  it   makes  up  for 


150  SELECTIONS. 

all  otherwise  lost.  It  rarely  happens  that  a  vain 
person  is  not  in  good  humor  with  all  the  world, 
and  all  the  world  likewise  in  good  humor  with 
him.  He  is  well  pleased  with  the  world,  because, 
though  it  should  be  so,  he  rarely  perceives  that 
it  is  not  in  good  humor  with  him  ;  and  the 
world  is  in  good  humor  with  his  vanity,  because 
it  makes  amusement  for  it. 

How  shall  we  describe  the  pleasures  of  the 
vain  person  ?  He  is  independent,  and  little  ha- 
rassed by  cares  of  other  men  of  the  world,  whe- 
ther for  wealth  or  knowledge.  Novels  constitute 
his  literature,  because  they  require  no  exertion  to 
peruse,  and  they  are  never  apt  to  trouble  one  with 
thought.  With  others,  the  more  they  learn,  the 
more  they  wish  to  learn  ;  the  more  they  study, 
the  more  discontented  they  become.  Not  so  with 
him.  His  book  is  left  at  any  time  without  the 
least  inconvenience.  How  contented  is  he  with 
his  figure  too !  See  him  as  he  approaches. 
What  a  bright  smile  sits  on  his  face,  —  his 
mouth  expanded  just  sufficient  to  form  a  most 
bewitching  dimple  in  the  cheek,  or  expose,  when 
he  laughs,  in  the  most  captivating  manner,  just 
enough  of  the  pearly  teeth  to  show  their  beauty  ! 
When  he  looks  in  a  mirror,  how  satisfied  is  he  to 
think  he  is  truly  the  "  glass  of  fashion  and  the 
mould  of  form  !"     There  is  not  a  particle  of  dress 


SELECTIONS.  151 

about  him  that  he  does  not  admire.  He  feels  far 
happier  when  he  has  tied  his  rich  cravat  as  it 
should  be  tied,  or  when  he  has  adjusted  his  locks  in 
the  most  becoming  style,  than  the  man  of  learning 
does  when  he  has  solved  some  difFicult  problem, 
or  answered  some  abstruse  question  in  science. 

Where  can  be  found  so  agreeable  a  personage 
as  the  vain  one?  Whose  brow  so  lighted  up 
with  smiles?  Who  so  ready  to  join  in  the  merry 
laugh?  Ah  !  when  I  have  entered  a  room  filled 
with  ladies  and  gentlemen,  where  bashfulness  or 
fear  has  confined  me  to  my  seat  and  tied  my 
tongue ;  yet,  when  I  wanted  to  make  myself 
and  others  happy,  how  have  I  envied  the  vain 
one  of  the  party,  who  going  from  place,  kept  all 
in  a  roar  of  laughter  at  his  exquisite  follies  !  How 
have  I  envied  his  confidence  in  himself!  How 
have  I  wished  that  I  could  make  myself  so 
agreeable  to  all,  that  I  might  enjoy  myself  as 
well  !  Your  vain  person  always  has  some  little 
egotistical  joke  on  hand  with  which  to  amuse 
you,  or  at  least  himself.  See  with  what  glisten- 
ing eyes  he  gazes  on  that  rose  stuck  in  his  but- 
ton-hole. How  they  sparkle  as  he  goes  about 
relating  the  charms  of  the  young  lady  who  pre- 
sented it  to  him  !  Was  ever  mortal  happier  than 
he  ?  He  is  never  at  a  loss  for  words  or  anec- 
dotes ;  for  if  all  things  else   fail,  he   will   regale 


152  SELECTIONS. 

you  by  the  half  hour  with  eulogiums  on  the  ex- 
cellent fit  of  his  coat,  or  pants,  or  some  new  knot 
with  which  he  has  tied  his  cravat  —  showing 
you  excellencies  that  you  never  before  dreamed 
of.  He  has  a  thousand  little  nameless  graces, 
or  artless  tricks,  to  play  off,  which  all  serve  to 
amuse  you  and  gratify  him.  What  would  you 
not  give  to  be  as  pleased  with  yourself? 

I  might  continue  to  enumerate  these  sources 
of  his  happiness,  almost  ad  infinitu7n  ;  but  ob- 
serve, —  watch  all  his  manoeuvreB,  all  his  mo- 
tions, from  his  most  magnificent  strut  through 
the  fashionable  streets,  to  the  most  careless 
glance  he,  from  time  to  time,  throws  over  his 
well-setting  clothes,  and  tell  me  if  of  all  created 
beings,  there  be  one  who  enjoys  more  happiness 
than  the  vain  man. 

Let  it  not  be  thought,  though,  that  the  vain 
person  is  entirely  free  from  care  and  unhappiness  ; 
for  it  will  sometimes  happen  that  the  bright  pol- 
ish of  his  boot  will  be  sullied,  and  the  corn  on 
his  toe  a  little  hurt,  by  the  unlucky  tread  of  some 
unlucky  wight,  who  minds  not  how  he  walks. 
He  may  sometimes  run  against  some  more  un- 
happy laborer,  and  thus  have  the  lustre  of  his 
coat  dimmed  by  dust.  These,  I  say,  will  some- 
times provoke  him  a  little,  and  disturb  his  equan- 


SELECTIONS.  153 

imity  for  a  time,  but  still  his  vanity  soon  enables 
him  to  recover  himself  again. 

O,  happy  vain  one  —  comparatively  free  from 
the  sorrows  of  those  who  are  only  engaged  in 
the  pursuit  of  wealth  or  fame  ! 


11 


154  SELECTIONS. 


NOVEL  READING. 

Probably,  far  the  greater  portion  of  books  read 
at  the  present  day  consists  of  novels.  Such  be- 
ing the  case,  who  can  tell  the  immense  influence 
these  works  have  in  forming  the  mind  and  char- 
acter of  a  people  !  No  book  is  ever  read  and 
understood  by  a  person,  without  some  impression 
having  been  left  upon  his  mind  by  it,  after  the 
perusal ;  and  as  the  conduct  of  a  person  has  its 
source  in  the  impressions  existing  on  the  mind, 
so  is  it  influenced  by  the  works  that  give  those 
impressions.  It  is  often  wondered,  why  novels 
and  most  works  of  fiction  are  so  much  read,  espe- 
cially by  the  young,  whose  attention  should  be 
turned  to  works  of  a  more  substantial  nature. 
The  secret,  I  believe,  lies  in  the  natural  feelings 
of  sympathy  implanted  deep  in  every  heart. 
Sympathy  is  the  prevailing  emotion  of  our  nature, 
and  in  it  nearly  all  the  other  emotions  take  their 
rise.  We  cannot  behold  our  fellow  beings  in  dis- 
tress, and  withhold  all  sympathy  from  them,  with- 
out libelling  our  nature,  and  rendering  us  un- 
worthy the  great  impress  of  a  noble  humanity  ; 
for,  by  so  doing,  we  should  abuse  the  most  heav- 


SELECTIONS.  155 

enly  attribute  of  our  being.  We  cannot  behold 
the  successful  struggles  of  our  fellow  men  in 
paths  of  honor,  or  their  virtuous  triumph  over 
evil,  without  a  glow  of  satisfaction  springing  up 
within  us  ;  and  it  is  this  sympathy  extending  to 
all,  that  the  novelist  works  upon.  His  characters 
are  such  as  enter  deeply  into  this  feeling  or  emo- 
tion. There  is  no  passion  deeper  rooted  in  our 
nature,  or  with  which  our  sympathies  are  stronger, 
than  that  of  love;  and  it  is  this  that  forms  the 
main  feature  of  nearly  all  our  novels.  We  feel 
an  interest  in  the  lovers,  the  hero  and  heroine,  that 
does  not  extend  to  any  of  the  other  characters  ; 
that  is,  if  the  love  be  depicted,  as  it  should  be,  a 
pure  and  heavenly  passion,  having  its  foundation 
in  sympathetic  virtues  ;  if  it  be  not  thus  depicted, 
we  become  disgusted  with  the  characters,  and 
our  regard  is  turned  to  those  who  represent  virtue 
as  the  source  of  their  actions  ;  and  of  such  there 
must  be  some  to  render  any  book  palatable  to  a 
mind  at  all  refined.  And  this,  let  it  be  remarked 
in  passing,  is  a  strong  proof,  that  there  is  in  man 
an  inherent  love  of  whatever  is  good,  since  the 
mind,  not  vitiated  by  bad  habits,  revolts  at  the 
contemplation  of  characters  entirely  bad.  But, 
our  sympathies  are  not  only  given  to  the  lovers 
of  a  novel,  they  also  extend  to  other  persons,  as 
their  portraits  touch  "  some  chord  in  unison"  with 


156  SELECTIONS. 

what  we  read  in  our  hearts;  we  laugh  with  those 
who  are  gay,  and  weep  with  those  who  are  sor- 
rowful ;  while  our  indignation  is  stirred  against 
those  who  are  vicious  and  have  bad  designs. 

This  is  illustrated  in  Dickens's  beautiful  story 
of  the  "  Curiosity  Shop."  How  strongly  are  our 
sympathies  drawn  towards  little  "Nell"  and 
"  Kit  !  "  How  has  the  writer  made  us  enter  into 
all  her  joys  and  sorrows  !  We  weep  when  she 
weeps,  or  at  the  many  trials  of  her  gentle  virtues, 
and  we  rejoice  when  she  triumphs  over  danger, 
as  though  she  were  som'e  dear  personal  friend  ; 
and  as  we  would  with  such  an  one,  I  had  almost 
said,  do  we  finally  take  leave  of  her  at  the  grave. 
The  "  old  man,"  too,  and  the  "  schoolmaster," 
how  do  we  pity  the  one,  and  enter  into  the  vari- 
ous feelings  of  the  other !  We  enjoy  the  eccen- 
tricities of  the  "  glorious  Apollos,"  equally  as 
much  as  they  enjoy  themselves  ;  and  we  feel  the 
greatest  detestation  for  the  "dwarf,"  and  the 
"  Brass"  family,  being  gratified  when  they  meet 
their  just  deserts,  and  "  Mrs.  Q,uilp  "  is  free  from 
her  terrible  bondage.  The  impressions  obtained 
from  the  perusal  o.f  the  "  Curiosity  Shop"  are 
most  beneficial.  We  derive  from  it  better  views 
of  humanity,  and  our  love  for  whatever  is  good 
and  pure  is  confirmed,  while  we  see  pictured  in 
a  strong  light  the  evils  of  bad  habits,  and  of  bad, 


SELECTIONS.  157 

unnatural  vices.  Throughout  the  whole  work 
we  converse,  as  it  were,  with  the  author  ;  we  see 
the  impress  of  his  mind  on  every  page  ;  we  feel 
that  there  is  in  every  line  an  appeal  to  the  softer 
graces  of  our  nature,  to  our  love  of  virtue,  to  all 
our  better  feelings.  There  is  no  endeavor  to 
create  a  luugli  at  an  expense  of  the  degradation 
of  the  mind  ;  no  endeavor  to  make  vice  appear 
alluring.  The  author,  himself,  appears  to  stand 
before  us,  and  point  out  the  paths*  of  pleasantness 
and  peace,  persuading  us  by  gentle  reasoning,  and 
beautiful  examples,  that  enlist  our  M^armest  sym- 
pathies, to  walk  therein.  The  whole  object  of 
the  work  seems  to  be  to  make  its  readers  better, 
to  give  them  better  views  of  humanity. 

But,  how  far  from  having  this  object,  are  most 
of  those  novels  that  constitute  so  large  a  portion 
of  our  literature  ;  and,  on  this  score,  forming  as 
they  do,  in  so  great  a  degree,  the  character  of  a 
people,  what  have  not  novelists  to  answer  for  ! 
The  object  of  most  writers  of  fiction  is,  to  fill 
their  pockets,  and  obtain  a  little  notoriety  or 
doubtful  fame,  by  giving  amusement ;  hesitating 
or  caring  little  as  to  the  kind  of  amusement,  if  it 
so  be  that  their  object  is  accomplished.  Thus, 
books  are  given  to  the  reading  world,  the  char- 
acters in  which  are  endowed  with  a  cunning,  a 
low  wit,  or  a  lax  morality,  deleterious  to  the 


158  SELECTIONS. 

reader  in  a  high  degree  ;  destroying  nearly  all 
the  finer  perceptions  of  the  mind,  the  delicate 
sensibility  of  purity  and  modesty,  the  apprecia- 
tion of  the  beautiful,  not  only  in  the  moral,  but 
also  in  the  natural  world,  and  enveloping  the 
mind  in  gross  sensuality. 

Among  this  class  of  writers,  who  pander  to 
vitiated  tastes,  I  place  Captain  Marryatt,  whose 
works  have  greater  influence  as  they  are  more 
popular  than  those  of  his  imitators.  Possessing 
a  knowledge  of  what  is  pleasing  to  a  depraved 
relish,  and  captivating  to  a  weak  mind,  he  has 
set  before  such,  characters  that  enlist  their  sym- 
pathies. In  novels  we  are,  as  it  were,  the  com- 
panions of  the  characters,  their  intimate  friends, 
their  personal  attendants  ;  ever  near  them  and 
ever  feeling  the  influence  of  their  example.  We 
follow  them  through  a  long  series  of  events  and 
years,  share  all  their  dangers  and  their  triumphs, 
and  continually  listen  to  their  persuasions  to 
either  what  is  good  or  wrong.  They  stand  to  us 
in  the  light  of  actual  companions,  and  our  sym- 
pathies are  with  them  as  such.  If  continual  con- 
tact with  the  vicious,  in  the  ordinary  walks 
of  life,  will  destroy  the  natural  refinement  jf 
our  nature,  why  may  not  the  same  consequences 
follow  their  influence  in  the  closet,  where  the 
mind  is  wholly  given  up  to  them,  with  no  exter- 


SELECTIONS.  159 

nal  objects  to  attract  the  attention  ?  The  same 
consequences  to  the  mind  do  follow,  though  per- 
haps not  with  the  same  outvv<ird  appearance. 
The  parent  may  congratulate  himself  that  his 
son  is  surrounded  by  none  but  those  whose  influ- 
ence is  good,  and  who  will  encourage  him  in  vir- 
tuous paths ;  but  if  he,  at  the  same  time,  allow 
him  to  store  his  mind  with  vicious  novels,  that 
influence  is  almost  wholly  lost,  and  he  has  little 
reason  for  congratulation.  The  brother  may  joy 
that  a  younger  brother's  or  a  sister's  companions 
are  refined  in  manners  and  gentle  in  character  : 
but  to  what  purpose,  if  from  the  library  he  carry 
to  that  sister  or  that  brother,  bad  novels,  whose 
influence  is  greater  than  that  of  their  companions, 
as  their  companionship  is  longer  and  more  fre- 
quent ?  Who  would  wish,  through  long  years, 
to  have  an  actual  Peter  Simple  or  a  Midshipman 
Easy  for  his  associate  ?  What  really  virtuous 
mind  v/ould  endure  their  company  ?  Their  fel- 
lowship would  be  a  very  great  evil  ;  they  would 
lead  one  far,  very  far,  from  the  truly  honest  walks 
of  life.  If,  then,  their  company  out  of  the  closet 
would  be  so  injurious,  how  can  they  otherwise 
than  have  a  dangerous  influence  in  it  ?  One  can- 
not, then,  be  too  careful  in  the  selection  of  the 
novels  he  allows  himself  to  read  ;  every  page 
read,  leaves  its  impression  on  the  mind,  and  no 


160  SELECTIONS. 

such  impression  is  ever  forgotten.  These,  and 
other  considerations,  and  there  are  many  others, 
should  lead  ongi  to  indulge  but  little  in  this  kind 
of  reading.  The  time  now  devoted  to  them  by 
the  young,  and  those  especially  just  entering  the 
period  of  manhood,  such  as  generally  compose 
our  literary  societies,  should  rather  be  given  to 
the  pursuit  of  useful  knowledge  —  of  wisdom. 

The  years  of  life  have  been  compared  to  the 
pages  of  the  Sybil,  and  wisdom  to  their  contents. 
The  price  of  knowledge,  of  wisdom,  is  patient 
and  persevering  study.  If  we  refuse  to  give  the 
price  at  first,  and  the  Sybil  again  presents  herself 
before  us,  we  find  she  comes  with  fewer  pages, 
but  still  the  same  price  ;  if  we  refuse  still,  when 
she  again  comes,  it  is  yet  with  fewer  pages,  but 
nevertheless  their  contents  can  only  be  obtained 
at  the  same  cost  ;  if  we  this  time  accept  the  con- 
ditions, how  much  do  we  find  we  have  lost  from 
not  complying  with  them  at  first,  when  the  leaves, 
or  years  of  life,  were  many  ! 


SELECTIONS.  161 


INFLUENCE  OF  CHARACTER. 

How  often  in  moments  of  despondency,  has 
the  thought  been  sighed  —  who  am  I,  that  I 
sliould  Hve  ?  —  why  was  I  formed  ?  I  have  no 
inlluence  over  the  world's  affairs  —  why  was  I 
created  ?  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  one  per- 
son has  as  great  an  influence  as  another  in  this 
world,  for  persons  in  different  situations,  or  pur- 
suing different  objects,  will  exercise  a  different 
amount  of  influence ;  but  that  no  one  is  without 
his  influence  —  that  there  are  none  who  have  no 
control  over  this  world's  history,  its  secret,  if  not, 
indeed,  its  written  history.  No  one  lives  but  to 
some  purpose,  and  to  accomplish  this  purpose  he 
must  have  some  influence. 

The  mind  is  ever  alive  to  impressions,  to  the 
action  of  mind  ;  and  while  we  are  animated  with 
passions,  with  the  power  of  feeling  and  acting, 
so  long  must  we  not  only  be  alive  to  the  influ- 
ence of  others,  and  surronnding  objects  and  cir- 
cumstances, but  so  long  must  we  continue  to 
influence.  AVhile  love  can  breathe  around  its 
endearing  charms,  lighting  the  eye  with  its  smile 
of  pleasure,  kindling  our  hearts  with  warm  aflec- 


162  SELECTIONS. 

tions,  and  implanting  within  us  the  desire,  as  we 
have  the  power  to  please,  while  fierce,  unholy 
passions  can  dwell  within  our  breast,  inspiring 
us  with  hate  and  fury,  throwing  around  all  their 
own  poisons,  so  long  have  we  the  power  of  influ- 
encing. As  long  as  we  have  the  power  of  reason- 
ing, and  of  persuading  a  single  person  to  follow 
our  designs,  or  desist  from  pursuing  some  object 
of  his  own,  so  long  we  exert  an  influence,  nay,  a 
great,  important  influence  in  this  world.  Men 
generally  give  to  the  world  the  color  of  their  own 
minds  ;  but  that  mind  is  often  colored  by  the 
lightest  tints,  the  most  trifling  things  ;  and  if  by 
means  of  a  word  acting  upon  it,  which  has  cost 
us  neither  trouble  nor  thought,  we  have  per- 
suaded its  possessor  from  a  course  of  action,  or 
led  him  to  pursue  one,  we  have  exercised  an 
influence  \vhich,  though  it  may  seem  so  slight 
as  to  pass  unnoted  by  us,  even  when  sighing  for 
it,  yet  may  control  the  destinies  of  a  life  ;  and  as 
mind  and  soul  are  eternal,  of  an  eternity.  A  few 
words  spoken  by  us,  perhaps  in  jest,  may  contain 
a  principle  which  another  may  adopt  as  the  ruling 
motive  of  his  life.  Our  careless  remark  of  to-day, 
may  be  another's  watchword  to-morrow.  Have 
we  then  no  influence  ? 

We  cannot  mingle  constantly  in  a  certain  soci- 
ety without  exercising  some  control  over  it,  which 


SELECTIONS'.  163 

may  be  seen,  in  some  degree,  in  the  respect  given 
to  our  ideas  and  suggestions,  or  in  the  passions 
stirred  against  us.  Our  greatest  influence  is,  per- 
haps, over  our  intimate  personal  friends.  One 
cannot  be  intimate  with  another,  without  either 
strengthening  or  changing  in  some  degree  his 
habits  of  thinking  and  acting ;  for  the  defer- 
ence paid  to  opinions  and  persuasions  is,  in  many 
cases,  a  test  of  friendship.  One  is  continually 
suggesting  to  a  friend  new  ideas,  and  guiding  his 
thoughts  in  a  new  direction  ;  and  as,  often, 
impressions  \vhich  are  once  made  on  the  mind 
are  never  afterwards  obliterated  therefrom,  so 
there  they  ever  remain,  to  influence  it  and  the 
conduct.  The  character  of  a  person  can  often  be 
told  (as  a  certain  proverb  indicates)  by  that  of 
his  companions ;  for  he  will  either  lead  them,  or 
they  will  carry  him  with  them.  Who  does 
not  feel  the  influence  of  his  intimate  friend  ? 
How  often  do  we  yield  to  the  persuasions  of  that 
friend  !  How  does  the  eye  receive  an  additional 
gleam,  emit  a  brighter  glance,  the  heart  beat  with 
a  quicker  pulse,  and  a  smile  illumine  the  counte- 
nance, as  he  is  seen  approaching,  telling  in  the 
strongest  language  his  power  and  influence  over 
us  !  We  are  ready  to  yield  to  him  in  almost  all 
things  ;  we  scarce  form  an  opinion,  or  determine 
upon  any  act  without  consulting   him.     As  his 


164  SELECTIONS. 

influence  over  ns,  so  ours  over  him,  or  those  to 
whom  we  stand  in  a  position  similar  with  his  to 
us.  Nor  is  this  a  transitory  influence,  passing 
away  with  the  view  of  the  person,  but  it  extends 
through  all  after  life  ;  and  as  the  character  formed 
from  these  influences  is  good  or  bad,  so  will  be 
the  result  of  its  action  on  others.  If  we  change 
the  course  of  a  single  life,  or  confirm  one  in  fol- 
lowing the  path  he  has  marked  out  for  himself, 
we  have  exercised  an  influence  greater  than  can 
be  estimated  ;  we  may  have  brought  to  light,  or 
crushed,  a  spirit  whose  name  ages  may,  or  might 
have  pronounced  with  gratitude  and  love,  or  the 
bitter  accents  of  hate  and  disgust.  How  then 
can  we  have  no  influence  ? 

Shakspeare,  lolling  in  some  cool  grot  on  the 
banks  of  Avon,  idling  away  in  silent  revery  the 
sunny  hours,  may  have  sighed,  "I  have  no  influ- 
ence," and  wondered  while  he  just  breathed  the 
sigh,  for  what  he  was  created,  or  why  he  lingered 
on  earth  uselessly.  But  how  many  minds  have, 
notwithstanding,  been  moulded  by  him,  who 
was,  perchance,  first  led  to  write  by  some  inti- 
mate friend,  or  the  chance  remark  of  some  random 
acquaintance,  whose  name  no  page  of  history 
records,  though  so  great  a  benefactor  of  the 
human  race.  Such  may  have  been  the  sad,  silent 
thought  of  some  young  man,  as  he  contemplated 


SELECTIONS.  165 

his  Ihen  position,  who  in  after  years  became  one 
of  that  band  of  pilgrims  whose  remembrance  the 
generations  of  men,  through  all  time,  shall  cherish 
with  respect  and  veneration.  Such  may  have 
been  tlie  murmur  of  Franklin,  as,  dissatisfied  with 
himself,  he  bent  over  his  brother's  form  ;  but  of 
whom  Lord  Brougham  said,  at  a  later  period, 
"one  of  the  most  remarkable  men,  certainly,  of 
our  times,  as  a  politician,  or  of  any  age,  as  a 
philosopher,  was  Franklin  ;  who  also  stands  alone 
in  combining  together  these  two  characters,  the 
greatest  that  man  can  sustain  ;  and  in  this,  that 
having  borne  the  first  part  in  enlarging  science 
by  one  of  the  greatest  discoveries  ever  made,  he 
bore  the  second  part  in  founding  one  of  the  great- 
est empires." 

Though  I  do  not  anticipate  that  any  of  us  will 
ever  be  Shakspeares.  Pilgrims,  or  Franklins,  yet 
the  lesson  may  teach  us  never  to  despond,  and 
certainly  never  to  be  careless  concerning  the  kind 
of  influence  we  throw  around  us  ;  for  our  influ- 
ence for  good  or  evil,  may  exceed  our  expecta- 
tions as  much  as  theirs  exceeded  their  expecta- 
tions. We  may  have  no  visible  ascendency  over 
the  mass,  or  the  multitudes  continually  passing 
by  us ;  but  we  know  that  we  have,  in  some 
degree,  a  controlling  or  guiding  power  over  the 
personal  friends  and  acquaintances  who  surround 


166  SELECTIONS. 

US  ;  and  to  exert  that  power  aright,  may  well 
call  into  action  our  highest,  noblest  energies.  To 
have  led  one  mind  to  pursue  a  good  path,  to  have 
roused  one  mind  to  ennobling  thought  and  honor- 
able action,  that  would  otherwise  have  followed 
a  sluggishly  inactive  course  in  regard  to  moral, 
mental  or  physical  abilities,  is  cause  for  lasting 
joy.  To  have  caused,  either  through  design  or 
carelessness,  one  person  to  follow  a  wrong  course  ; 
to  have  prevented  one,  either  by  the  silent,  though 
not  unfelt  influence  of  our  actions,  or  by  persua- 
sion, from  employing  profitably  those  faculties 
wherewith  the  Creator  has  endowed  him,  is  cause 
for  lasting  sorrow. 


SELECTIONS.  167 


THE    CLOSE    OF    THE    YEAR. 

Another  year  has  gone  by,  and  been  added 
to  the  chronicles  of  time.  Who  can  contemplate 
the  events  of  the  past  twelve  months  without 
benefit — without  feeling  that  his  time,  in  very 
many  instances,  might  have  been  spent  to  much 
greater  profit  to  himself  and  the  world  ?  As  we 
look  back  to  its  commencement,  so  short  seems 
the  time  that  has  elapsed,  that  all  its  events  ap- 
pear but  as  a  vision.  The  seasons  themselves 
have  glided  away  almost  imperceptibly.  Spring, 
with  its  first  opening  buds  and  the  lively  carol  of 
birds,  —  the  beautiful  new  green  verdure,  that 
was  wont  to  greet  our  eyes  as  we  wandered  forth 
to  inhale  the  sweetness  of  the  fresh  air,  —  is 
gone  ;  and  yet  it  seems  but  as  a  moment  since  it 
was  here  in  all  its  beauty.  Summer  too,  with 
all  its  loveliness,  has  departed.  No  more  the 
sweet  scent  of  its  bright  flowers,  the  gorgeous 
scenery  of  its  landscapes,  glowing  in  the  light 
of  a  brilliant  sun,  the  refreshing  coolness  of  its 
"breezy  eves,"  with  their  softened  lights  and 
shades,  and  the  merry  parties  of  pleasure  gayly 
gliding  upon  some  gently  flowing  stream,  to  the 


168  SELECTIONS. 

sound  of  sweet  music,  charm  our  senses  ;  but  all 
are  gone,  —  "  the  last  rose  of  summer  "  has  faded. 
Yet  we  know  not  but  ample    compensation  for 
these  lost  treasures  was  found  in   the  delights  of 
autumn,  when  the  earth  yielded  up  its  fruits  to 
increase  the  store  of  the  happy,  provident  hus- 
bandman, for   many  scenes  of  joy  and  pleasure 
did  it  bring  to  pass ;  and  the  gayeties  of  harvest 
time  may  well  compare  with  those  of  any  other 
season.     It  has  also  its   natural  beauties.     What 
more  beautiful  than  the  countless  dyes  of  autumn 
foliage  ?     If  nature  throws  off  her  bright  green, 
it  is  that  she  may  assume  a  richer,  and  a  mellow- 
er color.    Then,  too,  the  Indiaan  summer,  — what 
can  exceed  its  delights  ?     What  more   beautiful 
than  its  clear  blue  sky,  or  the  gorgeousness  of  its 
sunset — splendid  accompaniments  of  the  splendid 
drapery   of  earth  ?     The   close  of  the  year  leads 
the  contemplative  mind  into  those  musings  which 
visit  it  at  no  other  period ;  melancholy,  perhaps, 
yet  pleasing,  and  inspiring  the  mind  with  those 
sentiments  that  had  scarcely  been  entertained  by 
it  during  the  preceding  year.     Musings  of  the 
past !  —  what  a  boundless  field  is   the  past  for 
reflection  !     The  more  the  mind  dwells  upon  it, 
the  farther  is  it  led.     From  the  contemplation  of 
events  relating  to  ourselves,  we  are  led  from  the 
past  year  to  preceding  years,  and  other  persons. 


SELECTIONS.  169 

Then  it  is  we  look  upon  the  scenes  of  onr 
younger  days.  The  laugh  and  merry  cry  of 
those  with  whom  we  sat  side  by  side  at  school, 
and  with  whom  we  oft  chased  the  gay  butterfly 
from  flower  to  flower,  roamed  to  pluck  the  first 
tender  blossoms  of  sweet  May,  or  the  first  fruits 
of  summer,  again  dwell  on  our  ears ;  but,  alas  ! 
the  heart  echoes  not  to  it,  for  the  graver  scenes 
of  intervening  years  make  us  sad.  We  turn 
to  trace  the  paths  of  those  with  whom  we  thus 
sported.  Where  are  those  once  dear  friends 
now  ?  is  the  involuntary  question.  Who  can 
tell  ?  How  few  of  those  once  familiar  faces  do 
we  now  see  !  New  forms  greet  our  eyes,  and 
take  the  hand  with  apparent  friendship,  but  few 
with  whom  we  can  sympathize,  as  we  did  with 
those  friends  of  our  earliest  days.  How  difl!er- 
ently  do  the  diff'erent  periods  of  life,  youth, 
manhood,  and  old  age,  view  the  close  of  the 
year  !  To  the  youth  just  beginning  to  pour 
forth  the  treasures  of  his  mind,  another  year  past 
and  gone  seems  but  another  barrier  overcome 
that  separated  him  from  the  glorious  struggles  of 
manhood,  but  which  still  reminds  him  that  there 
are  others  yet  remaining,  and  warns  him  to  pre- 
pare to  meet  them  ;  bright  visions  float  across 
his  mind,  which,  when  manhood  approaches, 
are  found  to  be  but  delusive  phantoms. 
12 


170  SELECTIONS. 

It  is  then  in  manhood,  we  begin  to  reflect 
over  the  follies  of  the  past,  perceive  the  errors, 
passion  or  "mad  ambition"  led  us  into,  and  strive 
to  correct  them,  and  lay  out  better  plans  for  the 
future. 

But  to  the  old,  the  aged,  the  close  of  the  year 
sends  thoughts  of  the  period,  when  their  breath 
shall  pass  away  like  the  sighing  winds,  true  em- 
blem of  departing- life.  The  "sere  and  yellow 
leaf"  of  autumn  reminds  them,  that  their  "me- 
lancholy days  are  come,"  and  winter's  fleecy 
mantle  reminds  them  of  the  hoary  whiteness  of 
their  own  heads.  Memory  dwells  on  the  recol- 
lections of  the  past,  and  plans  for  the  future  are 
no  more  laid  out,  to  be  pursued  with  the  eager- 
ness of  youth,  or  the  determination  of  manhood  ; 
but  thoughts  retire  within  themselves,  to  medi- 
tations of  the  end  of  life. 


SELECTIONS.  171 


ISABELLA    THE    FAIR. 

It  was  a  sweet  and  beautiful  morn  ;  nature 
was  dressed  in  her  holyday  attire,  and  decked 
with  opening  flowers  of  all  hues.  The  sun  had 
never  apparently  shone  so  mild  and  bright ;  the 
sky  never  so  blue  before  ;  the  birds  were  pouring 
forth  their  continual  strain  of  praise  and  rejoicing  ; 
all  things  seemed  to  have  caught  a  spirit  of  joy 
and  hilarity,  and  it  would  seem  as  if  nought  but 
joy  and  gratitude  to  the  munificent  bestower  of 
the  bounties,  could  reign  in  the  heart  of  man. 
Yet  far  different  were  the  feelings  predominant  in 
the  minds  of  at  least  two  persons  on  that  beau- 
tiful morn. 

The  first  of  May  was  the  day  on  which  the 
most  splendid  tournament  that  had  been  witnessed 
for  a  long  period,  was  to  take  place  under  the 
eye  of  King  John.  The  two  persons  before  men- 
tioned, were  Reginald  de  Montmorency  and 
Philip  de  Barbarossa,  who  were  this  day  to  do 
battle  against  each  other  for  the  hand  of  Isabella 
of  Anjou,  otherwise  Isabella  the  Fair.  And  well 
did  she  merit  the  appellation  of  "  the  fair ;"  for 
of  the  many  beauties  that   fluttered  about  the 


172  SELECTIONS. 

f 

court  of  John,  none  could  compare  with  Isabella. 
At  an  early  age,  she  had  been  left  an  orphan  ; 
and  when  her  father  died,  he  left  it  as  his  will, 
that  when  his  daughter  became  of  proper  age, 
her  hand  should  be  given  to  him  who  would 
wield  the  best  lance  in  her  behalf.  In  the  mean 
time,  she  had  grown  up  under  the  eye  of  an 
aunt,  at  a  distance  from  the  court,  and  had  there 
been  taught  all  the  graces  and  acquirements 
peculiar  to  her  sex  and  the  age.  She  was  by 
nature  of  a  retired  disposition,  and  mild  and  gen- 
tle in  her  manners  ;  yet  she  held  in  esteem  the 
martial  exploits  of  the  age,  and  it  would  have 
been  very  unnatural  indeed,  if  she  did  not ;  but 
she  also  disliked  this  manner  of  disposing  of  her 
hand  and  heart  ;  and  of  those  who  would  pro- 
bably appear  at  the  tournament  to  contest  for  her 
person,  she  feared  none  so  much,  or  dreaded 
their  victory,  as  Montmorency  and  Barbarossa. 
"  Should  either  be  victorious,"  sighed  she,  "  I 
will  appeal  to  them  as  knights  of  honor,  that  I 
may  be  released  from  the  fate  that  awaits  me  ; 
surely,  if  they  be  men  and  gentlemen,  they  will 
hear  me."  But  little  did  she  know  of  either,  if 
she  thought  such  prayers  would  have  effect  on 
their  hearts,  hard  as  the  mail  that  covered  them. 
Montmorency  and  Barbarossa  were  reputed 
Europe's  bravest   knights,  and  as  wielding  her 


SELECTIONS.  173 

best  lances.  They  had  always  been  rivals  since 
either  had  gained  for  himself  a  reputation  with 
his  lance  ;  each  wished  to  conquer  the  other,  as 
neither  could  brook  a  rival  in  arms,  and  their 
hatred  of  each  other  was  intense.  They  had  met 
before  at  a  tournament,  but  had  come  away  even, 
neither  having  his  high  reputation  diminished  in 
the  least.  As  they  were  brave,  so  were  they  also 
proud  and  haughty  ;  and  holding  in  contempt 
those  of  less  renown  than  themselves,  thought 
only  of  meeting  each  other,  anticipating  the  con- 
quest of  the  rest,  as  a  matter  of  course.  It  was 
on  the  beautiful  morn  I  have  attempted  before  to 
describe,  this  tournament  was  to  take  place,  and 
the  space  devoted  to  the  spectators  was  filled 
long  before  the  hour  of  tilting  arrived.  It  was 
on  the  side  of  a  large  plain,  at  the  foot  of  a  row  of 
hills,  on  which  those  who  could  not  procure  seats 
might  stand  and  view  the  conflict.  On  a  large 
covered  platform,  surrounded  by  his  courtiers, 
stood  King  John,  most  gorgeously  apparelled, 
smiling  graciously  on  his  friends,  or  joining  their 
mirth  at,  perchance,  some  trick  played  on  one 
he  liked  not ;  for  John,  though  jealous  of  his 
power,  and  resentful  of  any  breach  of  etiquette 
to  him  at  most  times,  yet  could  not  always  con- 
ceal his  natural  feelings  and  passions  ;  but  his 
laugh  was  not  long,   for  he  almost  instantly 


174  SELECTIONS. 

thought  himself  of  his  position,  and  resumed  his 
stateliness  of  manner.     Near  him  were  those  who 
well  knew,  by  their  flattery  and   obsequiousness, 
how  to  gain  a  monarch's  favor ;  while  at  a  dis- 
tance stood  those  whose  boast   was,  that  by  the 
sword  and  lance  alone  would  they  win  favors, — 
all  clad  in   bright  dresses    of  shining  steel  and 
cloth  of  bright  hues.     On   the   opposite  side  of 
the  lists  was  placed  the  fair  Isabella,  simply,  yet 
richly  dressed.     She  was  the   "  bright  particular 
star  "  that  attracted  all  eyes,  the  consciousness  of 
which  made  her  heart  beat  high,  and  gave  her  a 
color  that  rivalled  in  beauty  the  rich  tents  of  the 
new  rose.     In  her  actions,   nevertheless,  she  was 
easy  and  dignified  ;  and  when  she  moved,  moved 
with  a  grace  that   charmed  the  eyes  of  all  that 
saw  her.     It  was  but  for  a  moment  she  gave  way 
to  the  excitement  of  the  scene,  for  soon  a  pale- 
ness came  over  her  brow  as  she  thought  why  she 
was  there,  and  into  whose  hands  she  was  likely 
soon  to  fall ;  but  recovering  herself,  she  assumed 
a  calm   resignation   to  her  fate.     On  her  either 
hand  were  all  the  beauties  of  John's  court,  in  the 
most  costly  attires  that  money  could  command, 
presenting  altogether  such  a  brilliant  assemblage 
of  beauty  and  wealth  as  is  rarely  to  be  seen. '    On 
each  side  of  the  royal  pavilions  were  arranged 
seats  for  the  more  common  people,  who,  in  their 


SELECTIONS.  175 

different  attires,  presented  a  singular-looking 
mass,  and  who  were  kept  in  order  by  numerous 
guards,  who  scrupled  not  to  prick  with  their 
lances  any  who  were  riotously  disposed.  Alto- 
gether a  glorious  spectacle  was  presented  to  the 
eye  of  the  beholder.  Old  and  young  mingled 
together  promiscuously.  Here  might  be  seen  an 
old  knight,  who  had  wielded  lance  in  his  youth 
bravely  and  stoutly,  his  eye  glistening  with  de- 
light, as  he  beheld  the  warlike  preparations,  and 
regretting  that  he  could  no  longer  take  his  wont- 
ed place  in  the  lists  ;  and  by  his  side  a  fair  boy, 
wishing  he  were  old  enough  to  be  there  also. 
There  Avere  also  merry  maids,  laughing,  smiling 
and  chatting  with  their  swains,  all  free  from  care, 
and  wishing  for  the  tilting  to  be  commenced. 
The  signal  was  given  for  silence,  and  the  knights 
began  to  prepare  for  the  lists.  At  the  sound  of 
the  trumpet,  a  herald  stepped  forward,  and  during 
the  silence  that  followed,  proclaimed  the  rules  of 
the  lists,  which  were  not  to  be  broken  under  the 
penalty  of  the  offender  being  depriv^ed  of  his 
spurs,  and  incurring  the  severe  displeasure  of  his 
majesty.  These  having  been  declared,  and  the 
accustomed  largess  bestowed  on  the  herald  and 
other  attendants,  the  herald  again  stepped  for- 
ward, and  proclaimed  that  Don  Philip  de  Bar- 
barossa.  Knight  of  the  Cross  and  Member  of  the 


176  SELECTIONS. 

Legion  of  Honor,  bid  defiance  to  all,  and  chal- 
lenged any  who  might  be  so  bold  as  to  dispute 
his  superiority  in  arms,  and  consequent  title  to 
the  hand  of  the  fair  Isabella ;  and  at  the  same 
time  threw  down  his  glove  to  any  who  dared 
take  it  up.  Instantly  a  number  of  knights  start- 
ed to  accept  the  challenge,  but  first  and  foremost 
was  Montmorency,  Knight  Templar,  in  whose 
behalf  the  gage  was  accepted,  and  whose  eyes 
glistened  with  fierce  and  indignant  glances  as 
Barbarossa  gave  his  insulting  challenge.  Each 
knight  then  selected  his  lance,  and  with  a  single 
leap  threw  himself  on  his  steed,  without  aid  of 
stirrup,  and  rode  round  the  lists  to  show  his 
skill  in  horsemanship  to  the  spectators,  who  fre- 
quently testified  their  admiration  by  loud  bursts 
of  applause  at  some  skilful  manceuvre.  Don 
Barbarossa  having  ridden  round  the  lists  and 
made  his  obeisance  to  the  King,  then  went  in 
front  of  Lady  Isabella,  to  receive  her  smile  of 
encouragement,  which  she,  according  to  the  cus- 
tom of  the  times,  was  obliged  to  give ; — but  it  was 
a  cold  smile,  it  came  not  from  the  heart.  Mont- 
morency having  followed  in  the  same  manner, 
each  took  his  station  at  opposite  ends  of  the  space, 
looking  like  statues  of  shining  steel.  They  were 
both  tall  and  well  made,  and  mounted  on  powerful 
chargers.     "  En  avance,''''  cried  the  marshal,  and 


SELECTIONS.  177 

^tting  spurs  to  their  chargers,  they  dashed  for- 
ward at  a  furious  rate,  and  met  in  the  centre 
with  a  force  that  made  the  hills  ring  again  with 
noise.  Each  had  aimed  at  the  breast-plate  of  the 
other,  and  so  faithfully  were  their  lances  directed, 
that  they  liit  where  they  aimed,  and  splintering, 
made  their  horses  recoil  with  the  shook.  With 
suppressed  exclamations  of  hate  and  defiance, 
tliey  returned  to  their  positions  at  the  head  of 
the  lists. 

New  lances  were  supplied  them,  and  again,  at 
the  trumpet's  sound,  they  rushed  forward.  This 
time,  Montmorency  directed  the  point  of  his  lance 
to  Barbarossa's  helmet,  who  nevertheless  did  not 
alter  the  direction  of  his  own  lance,  which  struck 
the  centre  of  Montmorency's  shield,  and  again 
splintered  it,  but  without  unhorsing  him ;  while 
Montmorency,  having  hit  his  helmet  fairly,  Bar- 
barossa  could  not  withstand  the  almost  super- 
human force,  and  fell  to  the  ground.  •  A  shout 
arose  from  the  crowd  at  Montmorency's  success, 
as  they  ever  liked  to  see  a  well-won  fight.  Mont- 
morency having  been  declared  victor,  received 
the  approbation  of  his  majesty,  and  in  turn  thre-w 
down  his  gage,  in  a  manner  similar  to  the  first, 
to  any  who  might  dare  accept  it ;  and  an  ironical 
smile  illuminated  his  features  as  he  gave  his 
challenge.     It  was  accepted  by  one  of  the  afore- 


178  SELECTIONS. 

mentioned  knights,  whose  courage  did  not  abate  as 
he  saw  the  renowned  Barbarossafall;  he  thought 
only  of  the  prize  to  be  gained.  But  they  were 
unequal  to  the  task  :  for,  one  after  another,  they 
were  unhorsed,  and  led  away  by  their  squires, 
till  but  one  remained  yet  to  try  his  fortunes. 
This  was  a  young  knight,  whose  appearance  and 
demeanor,  as  he  sat  upon  his  high-spirited  charger, 
attracted  for  him  the  good  wishes  and  sympa- 
thies of  the  spectators,  who  rejoiced  not  at  the 
success  of  the  haughty  and  overbearing  Montmo- 
rency, though  they  applauded  his  skill  ;  and  most 
sincerely  did  Isabella  smile  upon  him  and  wish 
him  success,  as  he  gracefully  lowered  the  point 
of  his  lance  and  made  obeisance.  As  he  approach- 
ed that  part  of  the  field  where  King  John  was 
stationed,  the  king  bade  him  reflect  with  whom 
he  was  to  engage,  and  withdraw  while  he  could  ; 
but  such  was  not  the  young  knight's  purpose  ; 
for,  not  vouchsafing  any  reply,  he  returned  to  the 
head  of  the  lists,  and  took  his  station. 

Montmorency  had  noticed  the  confident  man- 
ner of  the  daring  young  stranger,  who  passed  by 
the  name  of  the  fugitive  knight,  —  the  device  on 
his  shield  being  a  knight  on  horseback,  flying 
from  his  paternal  castle ;  and,  not  being  willing 
to  yield  any  advantages,  he  changed  his  tired 
horse  for  a  fresh  one,  and  also  his  lance. 


SELECTIONS.  179 

The  signal  was  given  by  the  herald,  and  they 
rushed  forward.  Each,  this  time,  had  striven  to 
strike  the  other  on  the  helmet,  which  they  did, 
but  without  unhorsing  either,  though  the  stranger 
knight,  while  he  splintered  his  lance,  reeled  in 
his  seat. 

Montmorency  noticed  this,  and  doubted  not, 
but  at  the  next  onset,  he  should  serve  him  as  he 
had  served  the  rest ;  and  the  other  took  good 
heed  to  select  a  tough  lance  for  the  next  charge  ; 
and  Montmorency,  also,  was  obliged  to  choose 
another  ;  for,  on  shaking  his  to  try  its  strength, 
it  snapped  in  his  hand. 

The  interest  of  the  spectators  was  now  intense, 
for  they  had  not  doubted  but  that  the  stranger 
knight  would  have  fallen  as  the  others  ;  and  all 
felt  interested  in  his  high  bearing  and  noble  man- 
ner—  the  maidens  especially;  but  they  were 
obliged  to  keep  silence. 

Onward  again  they  start,  swifter  than  the  flight 
of  the  hawk  when  chasing  its  prey  ;  as  the  very 
horses  seemed  to  have  partaken  of  the  spirits  and 
energies  of  their  riders.  This  time,  the  result  of 
the  rencontre  was  different,  as  both  fell  to  the 
ground,  while  their  horses  were  thrown  back  by 
the  shock. 

"  Aha  !  "  muttered  Montmorency,  "  is  this 
upstart  thus  to  serve  the  far-famed   IMontmoren- 


180  SELECTIONS. 

cy?     S'death,    no!"  —  as    they    both    quickly 
sprung  to  their  feet,  and  seized  their  battle-axes. 

"  Look  to  thyself,  young  sir,"  exclaimed  he, 
as  he  seized  it. 

"  E'en  take  care  of  thine  own  head,"  returned 
the  other,  as  he  received  the  furious  attack  of 
Montmorency  with  a  coolness,  and  returned  his 
blows  with  a  force,  that  warned  him  he  had  to 
deal  with  no  stranger  to  battle  scenes.  The 
blows  flew  swift,  and  with  strength  ;  twice  did 
Montmorency  press  the  young  stranger  on  his 
knees,  and  twice  did  he  regain  his  feet,  still  ward- 
ing blows,  and  dealing  others.  At  last  Montmo- 
rency's blows  began  to  grow  more  and  more 
feeble,  which  the  other  perceiving,  he  redoubled 
his  own  exertions,  and  finally  dealt  him  a  blow, 
that  felled  him  to  the  ground,  breaking  through 
his  helmet  of  steel,  and  laying  him  as  dead.  The 
combat  here  ceased,  and  the  stranger,  wearied  and 
fatigued,  advanced,  le.aning  on  his  squire,  to  the 
throne  of  John,  who  declared  him  victor,  with  evi- 
dent reluctance,  for  Montmorency  was  his  favorite 
knisht,  since  he  could  both  fight  and  flatter. 

"  Thou  hast  fought  well,  and  deservest  a  fair 
lady's  hand ;  but  before  we  bestow  on'  thee  the 
prize,  to  whom  give  we  it?  Methinks  thou 
should'st  own  a  name." 

"I  am" — and  the  knight  drew  himself  up 


SELECTIONS.  181 

proudly,  as  he  spoke  —  "  I  am  Henri,  called  the 
brave,  and  friend  and  companion  to  the  noble 
Richard,  your  brother,  at  whose  side  I  have  sal- 
lied against  the  Saracen." 

John  trembled,  as  he  ever  did  when  his  noble 
brother's  name  was  mentioned,  for  it  brought 
with  it  the  remembrance  of  his  wrongs. 

"  'Tis  well,"  said  he,  "but  I  would  see  thy 
face  before  I  bestow  on  thee  the  fair  Isabella. 
Remove  thy  visor  ;  "  for  as  yet,  it  had  not  been 
removed. 

The  knight  essayed  to  do  so,  but  in  vain  ;  and 
now,  for  the  first  time,  blood  was  noticed  flowing 
from  under  his  helmet.  His  squire  was  the  first 
to  perceive  it ;  and  quickly  taking  off  his  steel 
covering,  no  longer  smooth  and  bright,  but  bat- 
tered and  dented  with  blows,  revealed  his  fea- 
tures, and  at  the  same  time  it  discovered  a  deep 
wound  on  the  side  of  his  head.  At  sight  of  those 
features  John  started,  and  those  around  laid  hands 
on  their  swords,  The  knight  stood  motionless, 
regarding  them  only  with  a  look  of  scorn  and 
lofty  pride.  His  looks  showed  him  to  be  but 
young,  yet  there  was  in  his  dark  eye  and  ex- 
panded brow,  and  the  expression  of  his  counte- 
nance, that  which  denoted  a  high  and  noble  spirit 
of  daring  resolution. 

"Henri   of    Ravenswood,"    involuntarily  ex- 


182  SELECTIONS. 

claimed  John  ;  but  recovering  his  self-possession, 
he  bade  him  go  dress  his  wound,  and  prepare  to 
receive  the  fair  Isabella. 

Meanwhile  Montmorency's  squire  had  removed 
him  to  his  tent,  where  every  exertion  was  made 
to  recover  him,  and,  at  last,  with  success  ;  but 
his  brow  became  clouded  and  dark,  and  he  spoke 
fiercely  as  he  demanded  his  victor's  name. 

"  Henri  of  Ravenswood,"  answered  his  squire. 

"S'death  !  "  cried  he,  and  he  grew  furiously 
angry,  as  he  gave  order  to  prepare  for  a  march. 

"  But  thy  wounds,"  replied  the  squire. 

"  Dastard,  do  as  I  bid  thee  !  "  and  Montmo- 
rency, in  his  fury,  seized  a  baton,  but  his  squire 
had  vanished.  Soon  his  charger  was  at  the  door 
of  his  tent  ;  and,  regardless  of  his  wounds,  after 
having  counted  out  his  ransom  for  his  horse  and 
arms,  Montmorency,  followed  by  his  squire,  was 
swiftly  pursuing  his  way  to  France  ;  and,  it  is 
said,  never  saw  England  more.  John's  surprise 
and  astonishment,  when  he  sent  to  inquire  con- 
cerning his  wounds,  to  find  him  gone,  may  well 
be  imagined. 

During  this  time,  the  fair  cause  of  these  things 
preserved  her  accustomed  presence  of  mind  ;  and 
her  agitation  could  only  be  seen  in  the  quick 
changing  color,  as  either  of  the  combatants  gained 
an  advantage,  or  dealt  a  heavier  blow  than  com- 


SELECTIONS. 


183 


mon.  When  the  combat  was  decided,  a  sickness 
came  upon  her,  as  she  thought  she  was  now 
another's,  whose  she  knew  not,  though  glad  it 
was  not  Montmorency  conquered  ;  and  she  re- 
tired, as  soon  as  the  herald  had  given  notice  of 
the  contest  of  yeomen,  wrestlers,  &c.,  on  the 
morrow,  to  take  place  in  the  presence  of  his 
majesty  King  John,  with  a  sad  heart,  amid  the 
gay  and  joyous  assemblage  around  her,  who 
seemed  to  envy  her  the  daring  young  knight. 

"  King  John,  forsooth  !  "  exclaimed  a  hardy 
yeoman,  as  the  herald  finished  ;  "  not  while  the 
noble  Richard  lives ;  "  and  a  cheer  from  those 
that  heard  it,  greeted  the  speaker 

That  eve  was  Isabella  to  be  bestowed  upon 
the  young  Henri ;  and  as  darkness  began  to  over- 
shadow the  place,  the  long  hall,  fitted  for  the 
occasion,  began  to  be  filled  with  those  invited  to 
witness  the  ceremony,  ki  the  appointed  time, 
John,  followed  by  a  few  favorites,  and  the  victo- 
rious knight,  armed  as  from  the  field,  except  that 
his  armor  was  now  bright  and  polished,  entered  at 
one  end  of  the  hall  ;  while  the  fair  Isabella,  sur- 
rounded by  the  court  beauties,  entered  at  the 
other.  John  seated  himself  on  a  rich  seat  or 
throne,  acknowledging  by  a  haughty  bow,  the 
cheers  that  greeted  his  entrance,  with  Isabella  on 
one  side  of  him,  pale  with  emotion,  and  Henri 


1S4  SELECTIONS. 

on  the  other.     A  priest  in  rich  robes  was  about 
to    commence   the  ceremony,  when    Henri   ex- 
claimed, "Hold!  sir  priest.     Fair  lady,  thou  art 
free  ;  the  hand  that  I  receive,  must  be  the  heart's 
willing   tribute,  not   the  forced  one  of  circum- 
stances.    I  only  ask  the  beauteous  flower  that 
decks  thy  brow  ;  when  I  have  won   the  heart, 
then  shall  it  be  mine."    As  he  spoke,  he  took  the 
flower  with  a  noble  grace,  and  placed  it  on  his 
crest,  and  his  voice  was  rich  and  full  of  melody. 
Turning  from  her  grateful  face  to  John's  aston- 
ished eyes,  his  tones  grew  deeper  and  stronger, 
and  his  lofty  brow  grew  dark,  as  he  said,  "  Prince 
John,   beware  ;    for    Richard    lives,   and    yet  is 
king  ;  "  and  he  drew  his  sword  as  he  spoke  ;  and 
ere  John  could  recover  from  his  astonishment  at 
the    boldness  of  the  knight,   he    had   vanished 
through  a  side  door,  warding,  as  he  went,  some 
of  the  score  of  blows  directed  to  him,  and  receiv- 
ing others  on  his  coat  of  mail  ;  and  a  moment 
after,  the    tramp    of  his  steed's  swift   feet  was 
heard  on  the  pavement,  as  he  left  the  hall  behind 
him. 

"  To  horse,  and  bring  me  the  traitor,"  cried 
John,  as  soon  as  he  could  speak ;  but  to  no  pur- 
pose, the  knight  was  too  far  away 

Let  us  leave  these  now,  even  the  feelings  of 
the  fair  Isabella,  and  turn  to  the  occupants  of  yon 


SELECTIONS.  185 

noble  castle.  It  is  now  years  since  the  tourna- 
ment, so  feebly  described,  took  place.  In  that 
noble  and  commanding  personage,  do  we  not 
recognize  the  former  fugitive  knight,  bending 
over  the  counterpart  of  himself,  a  child,  lying  on 
the  lap  of  its  fond  mother  ?  and  in  that  mother, 
do  we  not  see  the  gentle,  beauteous  Isabella  ? 
Yes,  even  so.  I  cannot  tell  how,  but  it  happened 
that  they  met  while  Richard  again  occupied 
England's  throne  ;  and  as  Henri  made  proposals 
for  her  hand,  she  found  it  not  so  hard  a  task  to 
bestow,  as,  on  a  former  occasion,  she  thought  she 
should.  In  the  presence  of  their  approving  king, 
they  were  united ;  and  often  did  they  rally  each 
other  about  the  scenes  of  the  tournament,  before 
John. 


13 


186  SELECTIONS. 


THE  VISION. 

I  WAS  seated  in  my  study,  surrounded  by  books 
of  science.  In  my  hand  was  a  history  of  the 
progress  of  knowledge  and  liberty  from  the  earli- 
est ages,  and  of  the  rise  and  fall  of  nations,  and 
I  thought  its  date  was  in  the  year  1900.  I  had 
been  perusing  its  wonderful  pages,  and  contem- 
plating the  truths  therein  contained  ;  my  mind 
wandered  over  the  scenes  of  the  past,  and  was 
now  dwelling  upon  the  grand  strife  between  Lib- 
erty and  Ambition,  heroic  Greece  had  witnessed. 
I  turned  to  contemplate  the  history  of  fair  Italy, 
and  view  its  progress  in  liberty.  I  dwelt  upon 
Rome,  that  wonderful  city,  which  had  witnessed 
so  great  changes.  By  turns,  each  city  of  Europe 
was  present  to  my  mind,  its  progress  dwelt  upon 
with  pleasure,  not  unmixed  with  pain.  I  sighed 
to  think  of  the  strife  they  had  witnessed  ;  but  as 
I  thought  of  the  change  they  had  experienced 
from  following  the  bright  example  of  my  own 
glorious  country,  my  heart  beat  with  rapture, 
and  overflowed  with  gratitude  to  those  who  had 
founded  its  government.  But  I  longed  to  see 
more  closely  the  progress  of  liberty  and  dissem- 


SELECTIONS. 


187 


ination  of  knowledge,  and  the  wish  invohuitarily 
escaped  from  my  lips,  that  I  could  talk  with  one 
who  had  witnessed  these  changes  ;  though  I,  at 
the  same  time,  thought  my  wish  was  vain,  for 
the  dead  could  not  rise  again,  and  the  living  saw 
only  what  I  saw.  But  scarcely  had  the  wish 
escaped  my  lips,  before  a  rustling,  as  of  garments, 
attracted  my  attention.  I  looked,  and  what  was 
ray  astonishment  at  beholding  a  figure  as  of  a 
female  of  exceeding  beauty,  standing  before  me. 
I  gazed  upon  her  with  wonder,  and  as  I  gazed, 
bowed  myself  with  reverence,  for  there  was  that 
in  her  countenance  not  to  be  mistaken  ;  —  before 
me  stood  the  Goddess  of  Knowledge.  She  spoke  : 
"  Young  man,  thy  wish  is  heard,  and  loving 
those  who  follow  learning's  paths,  it  shall  be 
granted.  Follow  me."  She  stretched  forth  her 
hand,  the  which,  speechless  with  surprise,  I  took. 
Together  we  mounted  the  skies.  My  country 
was  soon  far  below  me,  and,  supported  by  a 
chariot  of  clouds,  we  crossed  the  vasty  deep 
of  ocean.  Europe  lay  before  us.  France  was 
passed,  and  fair  Italy  and  Greece,  the  land  of 
song,  lay  beneath  our  gaze.  "  Here  will  we 
pause,"  said  my  beautiful  guide  ;  "  now  is  thy 
wish  accomplished  —  before  thee  lie  the  lands 
thou  desirest  so  much  to  see.  Yonder  in  the 
distance  lies  Greece  ;  and  there  is  Italy,  with  its 


188  SELECTIONS. 

mighty  city,  Rome.  Look,  and  say  what  thou 
seest."  I  looked,  and  beheld,  not  poor  and  meagre 
kingdoms,  but  a  country  teeming  with  the  richest 
of  earth's  products.  The  people,  millions  in 
number,  seemed  doing  but  one  thing  —  singing 
praises,  or  listening  to  the  eloquence  that  flowed 
from  the  lips  of  countless  orators.  I  marvelled  at 
this,  and  asked  the  cause.  "  They  are  singing 
songs  of  gratitude  that  they  are  free.  This  is  the 
anniversary  of  their  liberation  from  the  thraldom 
of  kings  and  petty  tyrants,  when  darkness  and 
ignorance  flew  from  the  land,  and  were  fol- 
lowed by  knowledge  and  light.  On  the  yearly 
return  of  the  days  on  which  those  things  took 
place,  they  rejoice  that  kings  are  no  more.  Lib- 
erty dwells  with  them,  and  the  people,  in  their 
majesty,  govern  themselves. 

"  Cast  thine  eyes  now  upon  Greece.  There 
also  is  liberty.  See,  the  true  lords  of  the  soil 
have  returned  to  govern  their  land.  The  haughty 
Turk  no  more  grinds  them  in  the  dust,  for  here 
too  has  Liberty  triumphed  ;  they  are  again  free. 
Now,"  continued  she,  "  let  us  turn  again  and 
view  sunny  France.  There  also  you  see  the  peo- 
ple rejoicing  in  their  freedom  from  the  tyranny 
of  those  kings  and  emperors  that  so  long  racked 
her  noble  people.  Hark  to  the  song  of  that  com- 
pany of  peasants  in  yonder  vineyard  :  its  burden 


SELECTIONS.  189 

is  the  praise  of  those  who  obtained  for  them  their 
liberty.  Now  view  England,  Ireland  and  Scot- 
land :  — the  seat  of  so  many  hard  strnggles  be- 
tween kings  and  subjects,  is  now  free  as  Colum- 
bia. Let  us  shape  our  flight,"  she  still  contin- 
ued, "  o'er  the  rest  of  Europe.  As  with  Britain, 
France^  Italy,  Greece,  so  with  the  other  states. 
The  same  great  struggle  that  liberated  one,  libe- 
rated them  also.  Would'st  know  the  history  of 
that  struggle  ?  When  freedom  found  no  resting 
place  in  this  land  of  kings  and  emperors,  with  a 
small  band  of  hardy  pilgrims,  Columbia's  land 
she  sought.  Tiiere  she  found  her  long  desired 
place  of  repose ;  and  there  she  planted  that  mighty 
republic,  whose  glory  is  the  theme  of  the  world, 
and  whose  people  are  the  most  enlightened  of 
earth.  The  struggle  was  long  and  hard,  ere  she 
attained  that  eminence,  but  success  at  last  crown- 
ed her  efforts.  As  other  nations  watched  her 
growth,  they  longed  to  be  free  ;  they  longed  to 
partake  of  the  happiness  freedom  imparted,  and 
they  resolved  to  obtain  it.  But  not  at  once  was 
this  obtained  ;  no,  many  years  passed  by  ere  the 
prize  was  won.  When  the  struggle  began,  it 
soon  became  general,  for  one  nation  might  not 
obtain  it  without  the  other,  and  thus  all  Europe 
was  revolutionized.  The  struggle  was  success- 
ful—  Europe  was   free.     The   slave   no    longer 


190  SELECTIONS. 

bowed  to  his  master  in  Russia,  and  the  Turk  no 
longer  held  the  Greek  in  bondage ;  but  all  were 

FREE." 

Here  the  goddess  paused  ;  and  as  I  gazed  upon 
her  face,  there  shone  from  it  such  a  majestic  glow 
as  my  highest  thoughts  never  dreamed  of  before. 
I  could  not  interrupt  her  glorious  contemplations. 
I  could  only  gaze  with  awe.  She  again  addressed 
me  : 

"  Now,  as  you  cast  your  eyes  over  Europe's 
broad  expanse,  see  you  not  the  numberless  tem- 
ples pointing  to  the  skies  in  every  city,  town  and 
village  ?  Liberty  can  only  dwell  with  light ;  — 
with  ignorance  it  cannot  stay.  Conscious  of  this 
truth,  the  liberated  have  erected  those  temples, 
where  the  youth  of  Europe  are  seen  congregating 
for  the  acquisition  of  truth  and  knowledge  ;  and 
richly  shall  their  exertions  be  paid  ;  for  whoever 
seeks  knowledge  shall  find  it  ;  and  till  time's 
remotest  age,  shall  liberty  be  the  blessing  of 
Europe.  Even  now,  as  we  gaze,  see  the  count- 
less millions  of  youth  assembling  around  those 
temples,  each  one  a  future  patriot  and  friend  of 
his  country."  She  paused,  and  again  com- 
menced : 

"  Let  us  retrace  our  flight,  and  view  fair  Colum- 
bia, mine  own  peculiar  province,  and  Liberty's 
brightest  gem,  dear  to  her  as  her  first  resting 


SELECTIONS.  191 

place,  and  from  which  she  disseminated  these 
principles,  the  result  of  which  is  now  seen  through- 
out the  civilized  world." 

Towards  Columbia  we  shaped  our  course,  and, 
as  it  beamed  upon  our  view,  nought  on  earth  had 
appeared  so  beautiful  to  my  sight  before.  Below 
us  it  lay  a  rich  and  varied  scene.  O,  beautiful  in- 
deed seemed  its  green  fields  and  lands,  teeming 
with  the  rich  produce  of  agriculture  ;  its  gigantic 
rivers  and  lofty  mountains,  and  its  wide-spread 
prairies,  all  harmonizing  with  the  view  !  Al- 
though these  formed  a  scene  beautiful  and  unsur- 
passed, that  which  was  most  pleasing  to  my  glad 
sight,  was  the  many  millions  of  happy  people, 
enjoying  in  security  and  peace  the  blessings  of 
freedom.  As  the  goddess  gazed  upon  it,  a 
brighter  fire  lit  up  her  eyes,  and  new  energies 
marked  her  speech.  ''  Hail,  blest  America !  " 
cried  she  ;  "never  can  I  gaze  upon  thee  without 
feelings  of  glory,  pride  and  love  ;  for  that,  here 
first  dawned  Liberty,  companion  of  Knowledge. 
There  the  power  of  Knowledge  herself  was  first 
respected.  Happy  thou  in  being  her  son.  Mayest 
thou  prove  thyself  worthy  of  the  proud  name  of 
American  !  Look  over  the  beautiful  scene  before 
us,  and  see  the  millions  of  youth  gathering  around 
the  institutions  of  learning,  receiving  those  seeds, 
the  plants  of  which  shall   be  nourished  to  the 


192  SELECTIONS. 

country's  future  glory  ;  for,  founded  on  the  ever- 
lasting rock  of  truth,  Columbia's  glory  shall  be 
such  as  palmiest  days  of  kingdoms  never  knew. 
Not  like  the  gorgeous  splendor  that  follows  the 
setting  sun  to  the  western  skies,  but  the  brilliant 
purity  of  morning's  dawn  ;  for  the  sun  of  America 
is  on  the  ascent,  nor  shall  it  set  till  '  time  shall 
close  his  records,  and  the  heavens  shall  pass  away 
as  a  scroll.'  " 

The  vision  passed  away,  and  I  was  alone  in 
my  study. 


SELECTIONS. 


193 


FRAGMENTS 


AN    OLD    MAN'S    REFLECTIONS. 

I  HAVE  awakened,  as  it  were,  from  a  dream  of 
almost  a  life's  duration.  Alas!  alas!  that  I 
should  sleep  the  most  valued  portion  of  life,  only 
to  waken  as  I  am  about  entering  upon  the  "  pale 
realms  of  shade  ;"  to  prepare  for  which,  would 
well  occupy  ages  of  active  wakefulness.  In  the 
hope  thit  the  recital  of  my  experience  may  prove 
of  some  benefit  to  those  who  are  but  entering 
upon  lift's  duties,  it  is,  that  I  indite  these  lines. 
I  entered  upon  life  with  perhaps  as  fair  prospects 
as  ever  learned  upon  youth  at  the  commence- 
ment of  his  course.  Friends,  warm  and  ardent, 
greeted  meat  every  turn  ;  and,  above  all,  wealth 
was  in  my  possession  ;  that  which,  with  proper 
care,  might  have  made  me  happy  and  rejoicing 
in  the  blessings  of  those  whose  misfortunes  I  had 
relieved,  but  which,  in  the  end,  had  well  nigh, 
proved  my  deitruction,  as  it  has  robbed  me,  and 


194 


SELECTIONS. 


those  who  might  have  been  benefited  by  it,  of 
the  best  portion  of  my  years.  Though  I  had 
many  true  friends,  who  would  have  stood  by  me 
through  good  or  evil  report,  my  wealth  caused 
me  to  be  mainly  surrounded  by  those  butterfly 
characters,  without  either  stability  of  mind  or 
habits,  whose  only  object  seems  to  have  been  to 
live  upon  the  credulity  of  the  world,  weak  them- 
selves, and  make  it  subservient  to  their  desires 
and  wishes.  Surrounded  by  these,  I  but  too 
readily  surrendered  myself  to  their  desires,  went 
with  the  stream  on  which  they  floated,  and  yield- 
ed myself  to  the  giddy  whirlpool  of  fashion  and 
pleasure,  —  or  excitement,  as  would  perhaps  be 
more  correct  to  say,  for  it  was  not  all  pleasure, 
though  it  might  appear  so  to  others.  Naturally 
endowed  with  a  mind  fond  of  thought,  there 
were  moments  when  excitement  had  died  away, 
and  left  only  an  indistinct  recollection  cf  scenes, 
when  fancy  would  lead  me  to  perceive  that  my 
course  was  not  such  as  became  one  endowed  with 
capabilities  that  might  be  a  benefit  to  the  world  ; 
and  in  those  moments,  when  felt  alaie,  and  re- 
flection was,  as  it  were,  forced  upon  me,  I  was 
far  from  happy.  But  short  time  had  I  then  for 
reflection,  and  few  were  the  minutes  I  was  alone 
when  I  could  help  it ;  for  if  my  meditations  were 
not  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  my  gay  com- 


SELECTIONS. 


19/ 


panions,  as  was  most  generally  the  case,  I  drove 
thought  from  me,  by  seeking  them,  till,  at  last,  I 
learned  to  avoid  thought,  now  become  almost 
insupportable.  Thus,  in  the  gay  round  of  plea- 
sure, youth  and  manhood  passed  away.  Those 
who  would  have  been  true  friends,  seeing  that  T 
neglected  their  counsels  and  chose  to  follow  a 
useless  mode  of  life,  at  last,  were  either  forced  to 
drop  me,  or  I  became  weary  of,  and  left  them  ; 
and  thus  was  left  without  other  guidance  than  a 
passionate,  love  of  exciting  pleasure.  Thus  pass- 
ed my  days,  until,  as  I  before  said,  youth  and  the 
best  portion  of  manhood  were  passed,  and  left 
me,  approaching  age,  with  a  diminished  fortune, 
an  almost  ruined  constitution,  and  scarce  a  sin- 
gle one  of  my  former  companions,  who  so  gayly 
fluttered  about  me  in  my  prosperity  ; — no,  their 
object  was  to  live  upon  others'  wealth,  and  prey 
upon  them  ;  and  when  they  found  they  could  do 
so  but  little  longer,  they  fell  away,  to  prey  upon 
new  victims. 

Pleasure  had  now  lost  its  great  charm  of  ex- 
citement, and  I  was  forced,  at  last,  once  more  to 
think.  And  what  were  the  pangs  I  thus  en- 
dured !  I  found,  when  thought  did  return  to  my 
almost  exhausted  frame,  I  was  not  entirely  bereft 
of  sensibility.  Life  passed  in  review  before  me.  I 
had  entered  the  world  with  bright  prospects  ;  I  was 


196  SELECTIONS. 

now  fast  approaching  the  grave,  with  scarce  a 
single  friend.  I  was  endowed  with  talents  of  a 
high  order,  that  might  have  been  made  beneficial 
to  the  cause  of  humanity,  either  in  the  halls  of 
legislation,  or  in  the  more  domestic  social  circle. 
I  might  have  drawn  around  me  friends,  who 
would  have  loved  and  respected  me,  and  held 
me  in  grateful  remembrance  and  esteem.  Those 
talents  had  been  wasted,  and  I  had  lived  a  life  of 
folly  and  uselessness,  —  ay,  worse,  —  for  as  I 
had  been  led  away  from  usefulness,  had  not  my 
influence,  also,  been  given  to  induce  others  so  to 
go  astray  ?  How  many  shall  the  grave  hold  at 
one  dread  day,  led  by  my  example,  from  the 
paths  of  virtue  !  I  know  not  how  many  there 
may  be !  I  shudder  to  bring  the  thought  to 
mind. 

Who  shall  lament  me,  when  the  sod  lies  over 
my  mortal  remains  ?  What  tear  of  the  many 
that  might  have  dropped,  will  now  be  shed  in 
memory  of  me  ?  I  am  fast  hastening  to  the 
grave,  yet  I  would  not  go  without  making  some 
effort  to  redeem  a  few  of  the  errors  of  an  ill-spent 
life.  I  would  warn  those  who  are  now  entering 
upon  its  many  scenes,  to  take  heed  to  their  ways, 
lest  when  they  have  passed  its  meridian,  they 
too  lament  a  worse  than  useless  part.  —  Though 
thoughtless  pleasure  may,  for  a  while,  be  tempt- 


SELECTIONS.  197 

ing,  though  its  excitements  be  dear  for  the  pre- 
sent, could  it  be  known  what  pain  must  succeed 
them,  how  soon  would  they  be  thrown  aside  for 
ways  of  peaceful  virtue  !  The  grave  is  now 
before  me.  I  must  soon  sink  to  my  final  resting 
place,  and  oh  !  with  what  pleasure  would  I  do 
so,  could  I  reflect  that  my  passage  to  it  had  been 
one  of  usefulness  !  could  I  reflect,  that  I  had  done 
my  full  meed  of  duty  to  friends  and  mankind  !  I 
would  have  those  who  are  now  entering  life's 
domain,  take  heed  that  they  follow  not  my  ex- 
ample, but  that  rather,  when  they  leave  this 
world,  it  may  be  with  a  reflection  I  cannot  enjoy 
—  that  their  lives  have  been  usefully  and  pro- 
fitably spent. 


DEATH. 

There  is  nothing,  perhaps,  the  thought  of 
which  is  so  much  shunned,  as  the  thought  of 
death  and  a  future  life.  Men  hear  the  sound, 
shudder,  and  wonder  that  such  a  change  as  death 
must  come  over  them.  As  to  a  future  life,  they 
fear  there  is  no  such  thing,  though  reflection 
would  soon  clear  them  of  their  doubt.  The  late 
lamented  Mr.  Leggett,  a  few  days  before  his  death, 
composed  a  few  lines  on  this  subject,  commenc- 


198  SELECTIONS. 

ing  somewhat  in  this  manner :  "  There's  no  such 
thing  as  death  ;  the  end  of  life  is  but  the  beginning 
of  a  new  existence  ;"  and  as  such,  do  all  reflecting 
men  regard  it.  What  a  cold  and  gloomy  religion 
must  that  be,  (if  religion  it  can  be  called,)  that 
teaches,  that  when  his  breath  leaves  man,  that  is 
his  end  !  He  who  has  been  the  life  and  delight 
of  the  family  circle  here  •  he  whose  words  have 
awakened  an  enthusiastic  glow  in  the  hearts  of 
thousands  of  his  fellow-men  ;  he,  whose  voice  has 
been  the  sound  to  which  tens  of  thousands  have 
rallied  ;  the  maiden  who  has  been  the  pride  of 
friends  and  joy  of  parents  ;  the  young  man  of 
promising  talents ;  all,  when  brought  to  death's 
door,  cease  to  exist,  except  as  a  mass  of  earth  ! 
May  I  be  preserved  from  believing  in  such  a  doc- 
trine !  But,  •'  there  is  no  such  thing  as  death." 
Nothing  else  dies  ;  why  should  man  die  ?  The 
flowers  that  fade  in  autumn,  spring  again,  with 
new  beauties,  when  the  season  returns.  The 
grass,  that  moulders  in  Winter,  with  Spring 
arises  anew;  and  trees  that  have  cast  off  their 
garments,  adopt  new  ones,  and  though  cut  down 
and  burned,  exist  yet,  though  in  a  different 
shape.  As  the  seasons,  after  they  have  passed 
away,  return  again ;  as  day  succeeds  the  fading 
night ;  so  will  it  be  with  the  spirit  of  man  ;  a 
repose  in  the  grave,  and  he  will  again  spring  into 


SELECTIONS. 


199 


existence,  a  new  and  beautiful  being  ;  the  trann- 
mels  of  earth  will  be  cast  off,  and  the  spirit  will 
rejoice  in  its  freedom.  We  all  know,  that  as  our 
frames  grow  old  and  worn,  the  spirit  or  light  of 
life  within  us  becomes  dim,  and  glows  with  a 
feeble  spark  ;  it  follows  then,  that  if  our  frames 
were  never  thrown  off,  the  spirit  would  become 
incapable  of  action,  in  fact,  dead.  Death  is  but 
the  exchange  of  an  earthly,  worn  frame,  for  a 
better  one  :  one  that  never  becomes  enfeebled. 
With  such  a  change  in  view,  death  is  disarmed  of 
one  of  its  greatest  terrors,  and  man  passes  through 
the  dark  valley  without  fear. 


HOPE. 

How  mysterious  is  our  being  !  How  myste- 
rious the  manner  of  our  lives  !  Why  do  we 
live  ?  For  what  purpose  do  we  toil,  day  after 
day,  and  year  after  year,  in  one  ceaseless  round  ? 
Is  it  that  we  may  acquire  money  ?  If  so,  how 
foolish  does  it  appear  thus  to  labor  for  what  we 
must  soon  leave  !  Is  it  for  happiness  ?  Yet  it 
does  seem  vain  to  seek  it  amid  that  which  is 
continually  loading  us  with  care  and  trouble. 
We  go,  we  come,  and  to  what  does  it  amount  ? 


200  SELECTIONS. 

What  is  it  that  gives  to  life   its   sacred  charm  ? 
What  is  it  that  enables  us  to  go  through  the 
same  busy  scenes  with  ceaseless  repetition,  with 
new   and   ever- varying    emotions  ?      Although, 
from  day  to  day,  we  return  to  the  same  walks  of 
life  ;  although,  year  after  year,  we  toil  incessantly 
at  the  same  occupation,  yet  do  we  not  become 
weary  of  it.     There  is  a  something  that,  as  each 
day  passes  over  our  heads,  enables  us  to  hail  its 
approach  with  feelings,  not  of  languor  or  wea- 
riness, but   of  joy,  that  our  vigor   is  renewed, 
and  we  are  still  enabled  to  follow  our  pursuits. 
There  is  a  something  within  us  that,  as  the  light 
which  greets  the  eye  of  the  mariner  who  has 
long  watched  for  it,  gives  to  him  new  strength 
and  revives  his  drooping  spirits,  also  inspires  us 
with    new  life,    and  imparts  to  us  new  vigor, 
when  our  minds  are  depressed  with  thoughts  of 
the  many  sorrows  and  hardships  of  our  lot,  and 
enables  us  in  life's  darkest  hour  to  wear  a  face 
of  happiness,  and  calmly  await  the  future.     This 
something  is  Hope.     It  is  that  which  lightens 
the  burden  of  man,  giving  his  countenance  a 
joyful  cast,  even  in  times  of  sorrow.     It  is  hope 
that  enables  him  to  triumph  over  and  laugh  to 
scorn  his  worst  foe,  despair.     Is  his  brow  shroud- 
ed   in  darkness,  hope  dispels  the    dark  shade, 
and  covers   it,  in  its  stead,  with  sunny  smiles. 


SELECTIONS.  201 

Were  it  not  for  this  hope,  life  would  indeed  be  a 
"  dull  reality  ;  "  sorrows  would  reign  where  joy 
now  sits  light,  and  the  approach  of  the  future  be 
regarded  as  that  of  the  jailer  to  the  condemned 
felon.  Well  and  truly  has  Addison  written,  that 
"  that  life  is  the  happiest  which  is  the  fullest  of 
hope." 

TEA  RS. 

There  is  in  tears  something,  which,  while  it 
conveys  a  sad  impression  to  the  heart,  is  yet 
pleasing  at  times,  and  more  gratifying  than  many 
so-called  pleasures  ;  for  tears  universally  draw 
our  sympathy  towards  tlic  weeper,  and  not  only 
that,  but  they  speak  of  sympathy  also.  They 
show  a  tender  heart,  and  one  in  which  the  gent- 
lest passions  have  fullest  sway  ;  for  one  in  whom 
the  bad  passions  are  found  strong,  rarely  weeps, 
as  with  our  tears  seems  to  flow  away  also  all  that 
is  bad,  leaving  us  filled  with  better  feelings  than 
before  dwelt  within  us.  There  is  scarce  any 
thing  that  opens  so  readily  the  fountain  of  tears, 
as  that  which  calls  us  to  separate  from  some  loved 
friend  who  has  enjoyed  our  sympathies  for  a  long 
time,  whether  that  separation  be  in  spirit,  or  of 
the  body.  Above  all,  death  touches  us  the  most — 
then  it  is,  when  some  loved  one  is  called  to  de- 
14 


202  SELECTIONS. 

part,  that  our  grief  grows  more  strong :  and  I 
would  not  have  it  otherwise.  Although  I  would 
not  see  too  much  grief  at  death,  yet  1  would  not 
leave  this  world  without  a  single  tear  glistening  in 
the  eyes  of  those  I  leave  behind  me  ;  for  it  would 
bespeak  a  coldness  of  heart.  I  would  have  those 
who  love  me,  though  but  little,  evince  that  little, 
or  else  it  would  say,  plainer  than  words,  that  I 
was  not  such  an  one  as,  by  a  kind  disposition 
and  gentle  manners,  drew  the  sympathies  and 
love  of  my  friends,  and  endeared  them  to  me. 
It  would  seem  to  say,  plainer  than  words,  "  thou 
wert  not  a  being  formed  for  love,  and  earth  is  as 
well  without  thee."  O  how  would  my  heart  be 
pained,  did  I  know  that  such  would  be  said  of 
me  when  I  die !  When  I  am  called  to  depart, 
I  would  be  lamented  —  I  would  have  the  tears, 
in  the  still,  silent  hour  of  reflection,  come  unbid- 
den to  the  eyes,  as  a  lament  for  one,  loved  for 
his  good  qualities  and  kindness  of  heart. 


GUARDIA  N    SP  IRITS. 

What  a  beautiful,  consoling  doctrine  is  that 
of  guardian  spirits,  hinted  at  by  some  heavenly 
minds !  O,  it  is  a  glorious  thought,  that  while 
we  are  busied  with  the  cares  and  troubles  of  this 


SELECTIONS.  203 

nether  world,  there  are  spirits  on  high,  watching 
over  us  with  solicitude,  and  directing  oiir  ener- 
gies ill  right  paths  !  that  as  some  evil  imagina- 
tion comes  into  our  minds,  the  dread  thought  is 
banished  by  a  guardian  spirit.  And  may  not 
those  guardian  spirits  be,  in  some  measure,  the 
spirits  of  our  departed  friends,  who,  seeing  the 
danger  through  which  they  had  passed,  are  anx- 
ious to  preserve  us  from  the  same,  and  therefore 
hover  around  us,  to  guard  us  in  all  our  actions  ? 
Happy  is  he  who  follows  as  they  direct !  Wretch- 
ed is  he  who  neglects  their  soft  whisperings  ! 
Man's  life  is  a  mixture  of  good  and  bad.  The 
good,  we  may  imagine,  is  the  path  through  which 
they,  bearing  the  will  of  the  All-Supreme  one, 
lead  us  gently  on  ;  the  bad,  that  path  in  which 
we  stray  when  we  neglect  their  counsels.  It  is 
a  doctrine  especially  soothing  and  beautifnl  to 
those  wounded  by  the  loss  of  near  and  dear  rela- 
tions. While  they  are  still  lingering  here,  they 
feel  the  gentle  influence  acting  from  above,  and 
grief  is  in  part  assuaged.  They  direct  the  ener- 
gies of  the  poor  earthly  mortal  ;  and  when,  in 
silent  contemplation,  his  imagination  dwells  on 
things  heavenly,  they  commune  with  him,  and 
an  holy  serenity  and  calmness  reigns  within  his 
breast ;  and  as  he  mingles  with  the  contaminating 
things  of  earth,  he  remains  by  their  guidance 
pure  and  uncontaminated. 


204  SELECTIONS. 


PROPER    USE    OF    TIME. 

Time,  or  the  proper  use  of  it,  is  a  subject  that 
most  persons  dislike  very  much  to  contemplate. 
Why,  they  can  scarcely  tell,  but  so  it  is.  They 
are  willing  to  dwell  on  scenes  that  have  passed 
away,  but  seldom  to  bestow  much  thought  on 
the  future,  or  whether  the  past  might  not  have 
been  used  to  greater  advantage,  in  a  different 
manner.  This,  evidently,  ought  not  so  to  be  ; 
for  what  does  not  depend  on  time,  or  the  use  we 
make  of  it  ?  All  our  hopes,  both  here  and  in  a 
brighter  sphere,  depend  on  it.  The  passage  of 
time,  then,  ought  to  be  carefully  watched,  and 
no  moment  suffered  to  pass  without  being  em- 
ployed to  advantage,  either  in  improving  our  own 
condition,  or  the  condition  of  others.  Indeed, 
if  we  strive  continually  to  improve  the  condition 
of  others,  our  own  improvement  will  follow  as  a 
matter  of  course  ;  for,  happiness  being  the  great 
object  of  our  search,  those  will  rarely  miss  find- 
ing it,  who  seek  it  in  the  improvement  of  their 
fellow  beings  ;  as  a  glow  of  delight  and  pleasure 
comes  over  the  heart,  at  the  thought  of  a  good 
action,  such  as  those,  whose  only  thoughts  con- 
ceive the  best  and  most  rapid  means  of  acquiring 
riches,  can  never  feel.     The  mind  and  the  heart 


SELECTIONS.  205 

are  more  the  same  thing,  than  many,  I  suppose, 
imagine  ;  for  the  one  depends  ahnost  entirely  on 
the  other.  If  the  heart  be  pure  and  holy,  the 
mind  will  dwell  on  things  that  are  pure  and  inno- 
cent also.  Out  of  the  abundance  of  the  heart  the 
mouth  speaketh';  and  if  the  mind  be  impure,  the 
mouth  will  soon  betray  it.  If,  therefore,  we 
seek  to  improve  the  condition  of  the  heart,  that 
of  the  mind  will  soon  follow. 


TIME'S    CHANGES, 

How  great  are  Time's  changes !  Nothing 
escapes  his  unsparing  hand  ;  all  things,  by  him, 
are  changed.  In  boyhood,  we  laugh  and  sport, 
yet,  amid  our  mirthfulness,  long  for  manhood  ; 
and  when  we  have  reached  "  man's  estate,"  we 
sigh  because  our  boyhood  has  passed  away,  and 
envy  the  young  and  merry  as  they  join  in  their 
plays  around  us.  When  old  age  has  arrived,  we 
regret  that  the  meridian  of  life  is  past,  and  wish 
again  to  be  young.  Why  is  this  so  ?  Some  rea- 
son there  must  be  for  it.  In  youth  we  wish  to 
arrive  at  manhood,  that  our  sphere  of  action  may 
be  extended,  and  that  we  may  give  way  to  our 
ambitious  hopes  and  high  aspirations.  At  man- 
hood, we  wish  to  be  young  again,  that  we  may 


206 


SELECTIONS. 


be  rid  of  its  peculiar  cares  and  troubles,  and  that 
we  may  again  enjoy  our  past  youthful  sports  and 
plays.  We  remember  the  many  hours  we  whiled 
away,  and  we  long  for  such  circumstances  again. 
In  old  age,  we  wish  to  re-live  our  lives,  that  we 
may  live  them  better.  It  is  then,  when  our 
business  is,  mostly,  to  contemplate  the  past,  that 
we  see  faults  that  passed  unnoticed  in  the  busy 
whirl  of  life  ;  and  things  that  before  we  thought 
worthy  of  us,  then  become  contemptible  in  our 
eyes,  and  fill  us  with  dejection  and  sorrow.  If, 
then,  such  is  the  experience  of  man's  life,  how 
ought  those  who  are  now  young  to  take  warn- 
ing, and  live  blamelessly  ! 


FAME. 

Who  is  there  that  does  not  desire  fame  of  some 
kind  ?  There  is,  probably,  not  one  ;  and  it  is 
proper  it  should  be  so.  I  would  not  advocate 
fame  as  the  prime  object  of  all  our  actions,  as  the 
end  to  which  all  our  thoughts  should  tend,  but 
rather  that  we  may  live  so  that  our  deeds  shall 
be  such  as  shall  make  us  worthy  of  being  remem- 
bered by  our  friends  after  we  shall  have  been 
separated  from  them. 

The  object  of  man  should  be  the  greatest  good 


SELECTIONS.  207 

to  the  greatest  number,  and  lie  who  shall  aid 
largely  in  procuring  that  great  good,  is  worthy 
of  being  remembered  when  the  bonds  that  bound 
him  to  this  lower  world  shall  have  been  broken, 
and  his  spirit  have  soared  to  brighter  regions. 
Yet,  how  many  are  there,  who  live  and  die  — 
and  that  is  their  whole  history.  Even  those  who 
were  most  intimate  with  them  in  life,  soon  forget 
them. 

I  would  not  hax^e  this  to  be  so  entirely.  I 
would  that  the  history  of  each  individual  might 
be  continued  to  a  greater  length,  and  that  it 
might  be  said  of  him,  "  he  lived,  while  he  lived, 
eminent  for  his  good  actions,  and  was  an  honor 
to  his  country :  when  he  died,  he  was  univer- 
sally lamented  ;  for,  at  his  death,  his  country 
lost  a  faithful  servant,  and  a  just  and  honorable 
citizen."  Such  is  the  fame  I  would  have  awarded 
to  us  when  we  shall  be  no  more.  I  would 
be  honorably  remembered.  This  fame  is  con- 
fined to  no  particular  situation  or  condition  of 
life.  All  are  capable  of  acquiring  it,  if  we  but  i 
press  forward  with  honesty  of  purpose  and  sin-  I 
cerity  of  heart. 


20S  SELECTIONS. 


FOR    AN    ALBUM. 

I  AM  asked  to  add  my  name  to  the  list  of  those 
I  find  recorded  here.  Yet,  why  ?  To  what  pur- 
pose ?  It  will  be  but  a  few  short  years,  ere  the 
thoughts  that  are  here  noted  down  will  be  lost 
in  the  vast  abyss  that  receives  all  things.  A  few 
short  years,  before  their  authors  will  be  num- 
bered among  the  living  no  more,  and  all  memory 
of  them  cease.  The  book  that  contains  their 
fancjnngs  may  survive  them  awhile,  but  it  shall 
pass  into  the  hands  of  those  who  will  be  stran- 
gers to  them,  perhaps  of  another  generation.  I 
look  upon  the  names  here  written,  names  un- 
known to  me,  and  read  the  lines  above  them, 
some  serious,  some  gay,  and  as  I  look  and  read, 
ask,  who  and  what  are  they  ?  I  know  them  not ; 
yet  these  words  tell  of  beings  like  myself,  wan- 
dering on  through  life's  chequered  scenes,  ani- 
mated by  passions  similar  to  those  which  animate 
me.  I  see  them  not ;  yet  here  I  converse  with 
them,  breathe  their  thoughts,  and  join  in  their 
kindred  sentiments.  Yet,  how  long?  Their 
lives  speak  of  friendships  warm,  of  buoyant, 
ardent  hopes,  prayers  for  a  happy  course  in  life, 
and  confidence  in  the  future.  Yet,  how  soon 
will  they,  who  thus  breathe  their  wishes,  and  she 


SELECTIONS.  209 

for   whom    they   are   uttered,   standing  on   the 
threshold  of  those 

" pale  realms  of  shade," 


realize,  with  fearful  force,  that  their'  lives  are, 
indeed,  like  "  tales  that  are  told."  Their  mem- 
ory, perhaps  lengthened  by  their  mementoes  in 
this  book,  will  linger  with  a  few,  like  the  mem- 
ory of  a  pleasing  recital  ;  yet,  short  the  time, 
ere  even  this,  also,  shall  die  away,  and  none  sigh 
over  their  tombs,  except,  perchance,  some  stray 
passer,  who  will  sigh  to  think,  as  he  looks  on 
the  slab  that  marks  the  spot  where  they  lie,  that 
the  grave  must,  before  many  years  have  rolled 
around,  be  also  his  home. 


MEMORY. 

Oh  !  dear  to  me  are  memory's  dreams, 
Reviving  pleasure's  soothing  lays  ; 

How  bright  they  make  hope's  joyous  beams. 
Telling  of  happier,  sweeter  days  ! 

They  banish  from  my  darkened  soul 
The  pressing  woes  of  fleeting  time  ; 

They  bid  griefs  billows  cease  to  roll. 
And  bear^me  to  a  brighter  clime, 
15 


210  SELECTIONS. 

Where  lovelier  faces  round  me  gleam, 
And  joy,  ecstatic,  reigns  again  ; 

And  every  early  sunlit  scene, 
Renews  association's  chain. 

My  languid,  tired  soul,  once  more 
Awakes  to  long-past  joys  and  bliss  ; 

And  passion,  burning  as  before, 
Revives  my  faded  happiness. 

Aye,  in  those  fond  and  lovely  dreams. 
Misanthropy's  dark  reign  decays ; 

And  youthful  exultation  seems 
To  sweetly  fill  its  vacant  place. 

O,  could  I  thus  for  ever  live  ! 

My  joy,  my  bliss,  my  all,  a  dream  ! 
And  O,  that  gentle  sleep  could  give 

Visions  so  full  of  love's  bright  gleam  ! 

Then  would  I  bid  the  world  Farewell ! 

And  quick  resign  my  soul  to  sleep  ; 
And  nought  but  nature's  funeral  knell 

Should  wake  me  from  my  slumber  deep. 


THE     END. 


THE  L  :3RARY 

UNIVERSITY  O^'  Cx^LIFORI*^ 

LOS  ANGJEaJES 


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